J.  H.  Doebler 


RANDOM   RHYMES 

AND   ODD    NUMBERS 


Acknowledgment  is  made,  with  thanks,  of  permission 
to  reproduce  illustrations  from  the  following  periodicals  : 
Collier's  Weekly,  Success,  Life,  The  Century,  The  Saturday 
Evening  Post,  and  Good  Housekeeping. 


RANDOM    RHYMES 


AND 


ODD   NUMBERS 


BY 

WALLACE   IRWIN 


ILLUSTRATED 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1906 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1906, 
Bv  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  November,  1906. 


Nortooot)  }3rrss 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


SEtfe 


WISHING   THAT   MY  ART  WERE   WORTHY   THE 

MUSE  WHO   INSPIRES    IT 

THESE   RHYMES   ARE   AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED 


2075567 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  THE  AVERAGE  MAN i 

RHYMES  OF  THE  TIMES 3 

The  Ballad  of  Pilkins'  Pump 5 

The  Parlor  Socialist       .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .12 

An  Interrupted  Miracle 14 

The  Bride's  Processional 1 6 

The  Luxuries  of  the  Simple  .......  18 

The  Incubated  Chick.     (A  Psychologic  Tragedy)          .         .  20 

"Da  Strit  Pianna"         ........  22 

Manners  and  Customs 25 

Charity  Disconsolate      ........  26 

The  Reapers          .........  27 

Spring  in  Wall  Street 28 

A  Dialogue  of  Disdain           .......  29 

The  House  Beautiful     ........  32 

The  Magic  of  the  Moth  Ball 33 

The  Wail  of  a  Weary  Spook           ......  35 

The  Vicissitudes  of  Music 37 

You  Never  Can  Tell 38 

Thoughts  for  an  Easter  Morning 40 

The  Reformation  of  Cohen    .......  42 

Bohemia.     (A  Dialogue)       .......  43 

Philistia          ..........  47 

The  Distinction  of  Dasher 51 

The  Probable  Origin  of  May  the  First 53 

Servant  Girls'  Sonnets 55 

The  Auto  and  the  Idiot 58 

Convenient    ..........  60 

The  Progress  of  a  Plunger     .......  62 

Ellis  Island's  Problem   ........  64 

The  Mormon  and  the  Moslem       ....  66 


Contents 


The  Bird  of  Thankfulness 75 

The  Moan  of  an  Autumn  Husband        .....  75 

The  Poet  and  the  Gas  Man 79 

Apartments  in  the  Sky 81 

A  Club  Meeting  of  Solomon's  Wives 83 

Ye  Olde  Smythe  Inne 85 

A  Financial  Serenade    ........  87 

Frenzied  Furniture 89 

This  Fever  called  Living       .......  92 

Drifting.     (With  Variations) 93 

Natural  History  in  the  Year  3000           .....  95 

Practice  and  Precept 97 

Broadway  in  Summer    ........  99 

SONGS  OF  THE  UNSUCCESSFUL     ....  .     101 

The  Voice  of  the  Spectre 101 

The  Man  at  the  Desk    ....  .  102 

The  Wrong  Girl 105 

State's  Evidence 107 

SONGS  WITHOUT  SENSE 109 

A  Song  of  the  Orient 1 1 1 

A  Lie  of  Ancient  Rome 114 

The  Cares  of  a  Caretaker 116 

The  Song  of  the  Dancing  Dervishes      .         .         .         .         .119 

A  Bass  Solo 1 23 

The  Sea  Serpant.     (An  Accurate  Description)      .         .         .125 
The  Education  of  Grandpa   .......     127 

The  Gray  Spooky-Spook        .         .         .         .         .         .         .129 

The  Haunted  Elevator 131 

The  Powerful  Eyes  o'  Jeremy  Tait          .         .         .         .         .134 

A  Leap  Year  Plunge 140 

Nile-ism 142 

Science  for  the  Young 144 

An  Arabian  Nightmare 146 

Adolphus  and  the  Lion          .         .         .         .         .         .         .148 

The  Song  of  a  Spooky  Ship  .         .         .  .         .         .150 

Good  Gunnery 153 

Trade  Winds 155 

vi 


Contents 


GODS  AND  LITTLE  FISHES  .......        .  159 

Who's  Zoo  in  America           .......  161 

William  Also-Ran-Dolph  Hearst    .....  161 

Thomas  Fortune  Ryan    .         .         .  .         .         .163 

Chauncey  M.  Depew       .......  165 

Senator  Nelson  W.  Oildrich  ......  167 

Charles  Warren  Fairbanks      ......  169 

Governor  Samuel  Whangdoodle  Pennypacker         .         .171 
Grover  Cleveland    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .174 

Another  Peace  Conference    .......  176 

The  Ballad  of  Sagamore  Hill         ......  179 

Julius  Seizer  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .183 

The  Ballad  of  Panama  Ditch          ......  193 

A  Lively  Parallel  .........  197 

Monroe  Doctrinings      .  .         .         .         .         .         .199 

Heroes  :  Perishable  Goods    .......  201 

Ethics  of  Piracy    .........  204 

A  Fable  for  Socialists    ........  205 

Practical  Alchemists      ........  207 

Al  Hale  Spring  !     (Dedicated  to  A  -  wC  -  e)        .         .  209 

Statesmen  of  Futurity    ........  211 

Abdul  Hamid:  An  Appreciation  ......  213 

The  United  States  Senate  :  An  Appreciation         .         .         .  216 

A  Rhyme  of  Pure  Reason      .......  218 

Advertisement        .........  220 

Symptoms  of  Greatness          .......  222 

"  Provincial  "          .........  224 

You  May  Lead  a  Horse  to  Water           .....  225 

Education      ..........  227 

Song  of  the  Unimproved        .......  229 

Mr.  Shaw's  Profession  ........  231 

The  Heathen  Devil       ........  232 

An  Advertising  ''  Raven  "      .......  234 

A  Dramatic  Success       ........  236 

The  Mob       ..........  233 

The  Confessions  of  a  Public  Question    .....  240 

Liars  of  All  Ages  .........  242 


Vll 


Contents 


PAGE 


BEHIND  THE  COMIC  MASK 245 

Song  for  a  Cracked  Voice 247 

From  Romany  to  Rome 248- 

With  a  Posy  in  his  Buttonhole       ......  250 

In  a  Japanese  Garden 252 

The  Song  of  the  Samurai      .......  254 

Among  the  Dead  at  Liao  Yang 256 

The  Discoverers 258 

Home  Bound        .........  261 

A  Father's  Welcome 263 

Three  Songs  of  Christmas 265 

In  Camp 265 

At  Sea 265 

In  Town 266 

The  Monster          .........  267 

Clasp  Hands,  Ye  Nations ! 268 

The  Toy  Seller 270 

WHAT  FOOLS  THESE  IMMORTALS  BE! 273 

Child  Labor  in  Literary  Sweatshops 275 

In  Our  Curriculum 278 

The  Literary  Lady 280 

Odes  from  the  Cosey  Corner  of  Hafiz 282 

The  Literary  Horrors  Club 285 

Ballade  of  Sour  Grapes 288 

A  Later  Adventure  of  Pegasus 290 

The  Confessions  of  a  Genius          ......  293 

The  Strike  in  Bookland 296 

The  Quest  of  the  Local  Color 298 

The  Bookworm  Turns   ........  300 

Confessions  of  a  Parodist 302 


Vlll 


RANDOM   RHYMES 

AND   ODD    NUMBERS 


TO   THE  AVERAGE   MAN 

THE  Average  Man  wears  the  average  clothes 
And  the  average  hat  on  his  head; 

He  eats  at  a  table  and  sits  on  a  chair 
And  (normally)  sleeps  on  a  bed ; 

For  he  scorns  the  eccentric,  and  never  would  dare 

To  sleep  on  a  table  or  eat  on  a  chair. 

The  Average  Man  seeks  the  corner  saloon 

Omeric  refreshment  to  find ; 
But,  shunning  the  tipple,  he  wanders  to  church 

When  he  is  devoutly  inclined  — 
Nor  does  he  expect  to  find  whiskey  or  dice 
In  the  place  that  is  famed  for  religious  advice. 

The  Average  Man  says  the  average  things 
And  sings  just  the  average  songs; 

He's  deucedly  fond  of  the  Average  Girl, 
For  whom  he  unceasingly  longs  — 

And  his  vices  and  virtues,  too  many  to  tell, 

Are  oddly  at  odds  —  but  they  average  well. 

Statistics  declare  that  the  Average  Man 
Finds  the  Average  Woman  and  mates; 

That  the  Average  Family,  children  all  told, 
Is  something  like  two  and  three-eights. 

(Though  fractional  children  disturb  and  appal, 

The  Average  Man  isn't  worried  at  all.) 


To  the  Average   Man 

The  Average  Man  reads  the  average  books, 
And  sometimes  he  writes  'em,  I  hear; 

He's  neither  a  genius,  a  knave,  nor  a  fool, 
In  fact  he  despises  the  queer; 

For  if  he  departed  the  Average  Plan 

He'd  cease  to  be  known  as  the  Average  Man. 

But  deep  in  the  breast  of  the  Average  Man 

The  passions  of  ages  are  swirled, 
And  the  loves  and  the  hates  of  the  Average  Man 

Are  old  as  the  heart  of  the  world  — 
For  the  thought  of  the  Race,  as  we  live  and  we  die, 
Is  in  keeping  the  Man  and  the  Average  high. 


RHYMES   OF   THE   TIMES 


THE  BALLAD   OF  PILKINS'   PUMP 

IR  MARMADUKE,  Sir  Marmaduke, 

Arise  thee  from  thy  book  — 
Thy  daughter  Gladys  hath  eloped 
With  William  Jones,  the  cook! 
(J  I  saw  them  riding  down  the  road 

Within  a  one-horse  shay; 
Would  st  thou  sit  oofing  here,  Sir  Marm 
With  such  a  grudge  to  pay?" 

Sir  Marmaduke  him  up  hath  gat 

And  thrice  hath  smote  his  head, 
"Francois  de  Plum,  my  French  chafoor, 

Chaf  thou  mine  auto  red ; 
Mine  owlish  goggles  to  me  bring, 

And  eke  my  rubber  coat  — 
Heav'n  pity  them  within  that  shay 

When  Marmaduke  doth  mote ! " 

The  auto  in  the  road  doth  pant, 

A  hectic  sight  to  see, 
And  there,  I  ween,  doth  gasoline 

Make  odors  three  times  three  — 
In  blithely  leap  our  heroes  twain, 

And  as  the  sparks  explode 
Like  lightning  multiplied  by  steam 

They  scorch  them  down  the  road. 
5 


The   Ballad  of  Pilkins'   Pump 


Adown  the  road  they  niftly  scorch 

Till  eke  and  eft  forsooth 
By  Pilkins'  Pump  their  speed  doth  slack 

And  direful  dawns  the  Truth ; 
Down-busted  is  the  whole  shebang, 

O  hapless  hap,  alas ! 
The  sparker  will  not  spark  because 

The  gasoline  won't  gas ! 

O  Marmaduke,  Sir  Marmaduke, 

Recall  that  deep-sworn  D. ! 
Such  godless  word  befitteth  not 

A  man  of  familee ; 
Francois  de  Plum,  down  on  thy  turn, 

Nor  grind  thy  Gallic  teeth, 
Crawl  snakelike  on  the  sward  and  see 

What  hath  gone  wrong  beneath ! 

And  now  the  jocund  peasantry 
Come  tripping  o'er  the  sward, 


The  Ballad  of  Pilkins'  Pump 


From  every  tarn,  from  every  barn, 

From  every  chicken-yard, 
To  snicker  at  the  glowering  Knight 

And  mock  his  vain  remorse, 
And  some  cry,  "Git  a  monkey-wrench!" 

Yet  others,  "Git  a  horse!" 


"O  tell  me,  jocund  peasantry, 

Saw  ye  that  fleeing  pair?" 
"O,  yes,  Sir  Knight,  this  morning  bright 

We  seen  'em  riding  fair. 
Their  horse  was  lame  and  blind  and  tame, 

And  like  molasses  slow. 
'Twill  be  a  snap  to  catch  them,  sir, 

Within  that  swift  au-to." 

"Fudge  on  your  words!"   upspake  the  Knight, 
Down-swallowing  a  lump, 

7 


The  Ballad  of  Pilkins'  Pump 

"  Swish-bingled  little  speed  we'll  make 

Tied  here  to  Pilkins'  Pump ! " 
Then  forth  crawls  fair  Francois  de  Plum 

A  smudge  across  his  chin, 
"Cheer  up,  good  Knight,  'tis  fixed  all  right 

Jump  in,  Milord,  jump  in ! " 

Then  in  they  jump  and  off  they  jump 

A  streak  of  red  and  gray, 
Down-felling  all  the  peasantry 

That  stand  across  their  way; 


Si  Scroggins'  Barn  and  Reubensville 

At  bullet  speed  they  pass 
To  Stringtown,  where  the  Constable 

Hath  strewn  the  road  with  glass. 
8 


The   Ballad  of  Pilkins'   Pump 

O  moment  dire !   puff  goes  a  tire, 

And  in  a  clownish  way 
Sir  Marmaduke  and  F.  de  Plum 

Land  in  a  stack  of  hay, 
From  whence  Bill  Brown,  the  Constable, 

Our  heroes  handcuffed  brings, 
"For  scorchin'  on  the  King's  Highway 

And  trespassin',  be  jings!" 


Then  to  the  Justice  of  the  Peace 
Doth  march  that  rustic  boor 

A-dragging  haughty  Marmaduke 
And  ditto  his  chafoor; 

But  at  the  Justice  of  the  Peace 
What  waits  them  there,  I  pray? 
9 


The   Ballad  of  Pilkin's  Pump 


A  lame  horse  drowseth  by  the  door 
Hitched  to  a  one-horse  shay! 

And  from  the  Justice  of  the  Peace  — 

O  be  mine  eyes  mistook?  — 
The  Lady  Gladys  fareth  forth 

And  leads  her  darling  Cook ; 
The  orange  flowers  are  in  her  hair, 

(List  how  the  Father  raves !) 
The  Cook  in  bridal  weeds  attired 

A  marriage  license  waves. 

"O  humble  Cook,  O  pastry  Cook, 
(Here,  chafoor,  pay  my  fine !) 

Can  I  forgive  this  sneaking  trick 
Thou  dost  to  me  and  mine? 

To  share  my  lands  with  such  a  churl 
Gadzookly  I  am  loth  — 

But  hitch  mine  auto  to  your  shay 

And  I  will  bless  ye  both ! " 
10 


The   Ballad    of  Pilkins'   Pump 


Then  homeward  in  the  one-horse  shay 

The  happy  couple  go, 
With  Marmaduke  and  F.  de  Plum 

Dragged  wearily  in  tow. 
And  as  they  roll,  the  weary  Knight 

Doth  sigh  to  his  chafoor, 
"The  Auto  goeth  swift  by  jerks, 

The  Horse  is  slow  but  sure ! " 


ii 


THE  PARLOR  SOCIALIST 

SHE'D  tired  of  parties,  bridge,  and  balls, 
She'd  worn  out  theatres  and  calls; 
No  lovers  pleased  her  any  more, 
Yachting  was  equally  a  bore. 
She  tried  a  Yogi  —  he  went  stale ; 
So,  finding  every  pleasure  fail, 
She  slapped  the  System  on  the  wrist, 
And  called  herself  a  Socialist. 

So  now  she  sits  up  late  o'  nights 
And  reads  what  Mr.  London  writes. 
She's  also  read  "The  Jungle"  through 
(Her  father  made  his  pile  in  glue). 
She  doesn't  think  that  Gorky's  nice, 
But  still  she  keeps  his  books  on  ice; 
And  Bernard  Shaw's  peculiar  twist 
She  likes  —  for  she's  a  Socialist. 

She  gives  a  tea  just  once  a  week, 

With  trimmings  which  she  calls  "unique"  — 

Expensive  orchids  here  and  there, 

With  now  and  then  a  head  of  hair 

Above  a  gentlemanly  voice 

Which  lisps  of  "Tolstoy's  Higher  Choice"; 

Quite  "radical"  becomes  the  gist 

Of  talk  —  for  she's  a  Socialist. 
12 


The  Parlor  Socialist 

Before  a  priceless  inlaid  desk 

She  sits  in  costume  something-esque ; 

The  precious  carvings  in  the  halls, 

The  gobelins  upon  the  walls, 

Stare  as  she  writes,  from  time  to  time, 

"Personal  Property  —  a  Crime." 

The  passing  butler  whispers:   "Hist! 

Be  quiet!     She's  a  Socialist!" 

Only  her  father  chuckles,  "Pooh !  " 
(He  owns  Amalgamated  Glue). 
"Last  year,"  he  says,  "it  seems  to  me 
Her  fad  was  genealogy; 
Next  year,  perhaps,  she'll  take  a  freak 
To  study  law  or  ancient  Greek. 
She's  so  darned  cute  I  can't  resist 
Watchin'  her  playin'  Socialist ! " 


AN  INTERRUPTED  MIRACLE 

As  summer's  trail  of  boiling  heat  I  wandered  in  the  wake  of 
I  sought  a  Broadway  restaurant  my  luncheon  to  partake  of. 

The  Waiter  with  great  courtesy  brought  food  both  wet  and 

dry, 
Then  with  a  pose  of  deference  assumed  his  station  nigh. 

And  when  my  frugal  meal  was  done  the  Waiter  brought  the 

slip. 
I  paid  my  score,  then  quietly  presented  him  a  tip. 

At  which  the  Waiter  turned  away.    His  looks  I  can't  describe. 
"Retain  your  money,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  cannot  take  a  bribe! 

"I  speak  but  true  —  my  wants  are  few,  I  do  not  need  the 

stuff. 
The  Management  is  kind  to  me  and  pays  me  well  enough. 

"Oh, keep  your  money, sir,  I  pray — or  spend  it  as  you  should 
Upon  some  worthy  charity  where  it  will  do  some  good." 

I  watched  the  fellow  turn  away  —  I  could  not  speak  or 

smile. 
I  mopped  the  dewdrops  from  my  brow  and  felt  my  pulse 

awhile. 

14 


An  Interrupted   Miracle 

"It  was  a  dream  —  a  dream  ! "  at  last  I  found  the  voice  to 

say  — 
"Or  haply  New  Jerusalem  has  opened  on  Broadway." 

But  even  as  I  spoke,  my  fevered  fancies  to  disturb, 

A  jaunty  Bellevue  ambulance  backed  up  against  the  curb. 

Attendants  brought  that  Waiter  out  and  bundled  him  aboard. 
I  knew  where  he  was  going  —  to  the  Psychopathic  Ward. 


THE  BRIDE'S   PROCESSIONAL 

FIRST  in  importance  the  BRIDE  comes  —  her  dresses, 

Ribbons  and  laces  and  feelings  and  fluffs, 
Fit  of  her  bodice  and  curl  of  her  tresses, 

Trousseau  and  trinkets  and  powder  and  puffs. 
Frills  in  abundance,  tucks  in  redundance, 

Blushes  in  companies,  squadrons,  brigades, 
Ever  renewing  (Cupid  reviewing 

Stands  like  a  general  flanked  by  his  aides). 
Next  come  the  Presents  in  regiments  splendid, 

Duplicate  ice  pitchers,  berry  sets,  spoons, 
Silver,  for  heaven-knows-what-all  intended, 

Clocks,  lamps,  decanters  in  solid  platoons. 
Cart  loads  and  van  loads,  dray  loads  and  man  loads, 

Useful  and  useless,  ugly  and  fair ; 
Piles  of  'em,  miles  of  'em,  myriad  styles  of  'em 

Join  the  parade  with  a  militant  air. 
Next  come  Her  Relatives  —  uncles  by  dozens, 

Sisters  by  marriage  and  numerous  aunts, 
Multiple  nieces  and  fractional  cousins, 

Chiefs  of  the  clan,  you  can  see  at  a  glance ; 
Friends  of  Her  mother's,  chums  of  Her  brother's, 

Bevies  of  bridesmaids  (efficient  as  blushers) ; 
Next  comes  the  Pastor,  of  knots  the  grand  master, 

Then  in  importance  we  notice  the  Ushers. 
Next  in  the  order  of  rank  the  Musician 

Comes  in  this  nuptial  function  of  June, 
16 


The  Bride's   Processional 

Wafting  abroad  from  his  lofty  position 

Lohengrin1  s  quite  indispensable  tune. 
Next  in  the  function  the  Butler's  grave  unction 

Marshals  the  servants  through  palm-covered  bowers, 
Welcoming  blandly,  ordering  grandly 

Men  with  refreshments  and  ices  and  flowers. 

Last  in  importance  there  stands  a  young  fellow 
Close  to  the  BRIDE  as  she  enters  the  room  — 

Let  him  look  happy  or  dazzled  or  mellow; 
No  one  will  notice  — •  he's  only  the  groom ! 


THE  LUXURIES   OF  THE  SIMPLE 

LISTEN  to  my  sorrows 

Owing  to  my  wife  — 
She's  a  monomaniac 

On  "The  Simple  Life." 

Says  she  wants  a  homestead 

Somewhere  in  the  hills, 
Far  from  wear  and  shove  and  tear 

And  the  pace  that  kills. 

Just  a  simple  cottage 
Free  from  pomp  and  show, 

(Real  estate's  expensive 
Where  she  wants  to  go). 

Wants  some  woolly  lambkins 

On  the  hills  to  browse, 
Wants  some  chickens,  horses,  ducks, 

Ditto  pigs  and  cows. 

Wants  some  simple  furniture 

Built  for  art  and  use, 
(These  rough-hewn  interiors 

Cost  to  beat  the  deuce). 

Wants  a  trickling  river 

Near  our  sylvan  haunt  — 
18 


The   Luxuries  of  the  Simple 

Fact  there's  nothing  out-of-doors 
That  she  doesn't  want. 

Spare  me,  wife,  O  spare  me 

This  simplicity  — 
Do  not  scorn  our  uptown  flat 

With  its  luxury ! 

Not  for  us  the  humble 

Country  pleasures,  dear, 
While  our  income's  limited, 

Seven  thou'  a  year. 

With  our  vulgar  glitter 

Be  content,  my  wife  — 
We're  not  nearly  rich  enough 

To  lead  the  Simple  Life ! 


THE  INCUBATED   CHICK 

(A  PSYCHOLOGIC  TRAGEDY) 

I'M  not  a  little  orphan,  sir, 

But  I  am  just  as  sad, 
A-peakin'  and  a-pinin'  for 

The  love  I  never  had  — 
One  touch  of  human  sympathy 

Would  melt  my  poultry  natur', 
But  I  refrain  from  hope  so  vain, 

For  ma's  an  incubator ! 

When  first  I  burst  my  parent  shell, 

How  hideous  the  dream  — 
No  rich  cluck,  cluck  fond  love  to  tell; 

No  sound,  alas,  but  —  steam! 
I  felt  in  vain  for  sheltering  wings 

Within  that  broilin'  crater; 
And  then,  in  sooth,  the  horrid  truth  — 

Ma  was  an  incubator ! 

I  see  that  tin  thing  over  there 
And  weep  beside  my  brother  — 

"Ah,  hideous  lie  —  how  much  I  try 
I  cannot  call  it  mother!" 

You  say  I'm  false,  unnatural, 
Cruel  as  an  alligator! 

One  can't  remain  quite  normal  when 

His  ma's  an  incubator. 
20 


The  Incubated  Chick 

Sometimes  at  rosy-fingered  dawn 

I  stand  in  pensive  mood 
As  now  and  then  some  kind,  sweet  hen 

Walks  proudly  with  her  brood  — 
Dear  influences  of  the  home ! 

And  I,  a  woman-hater, 
Stand  all  apart  with  withered  heart: 

For  ma's  an  incubator. 


21 


"DA  STRIT  PI  ANNA" 

IT  dis-a-way  in  dis-a  worl',  w'ere  everat'ing  don'  fit, 

Some  fellas  mak-a  da  music,  an'  da  oders  pay  for  it, 

An'  da's-a  w'y  me  an'  Bianca,  evera  place  we  go, 

We  play-a  tunes  da  pipple  lak,  from  Harlem  to  Park  Row; 

An'  if  our  music  somatime  sad,  an'  somatime  it  gay  — 

Well,  da's  da  kine  o'  music  w'at  da  strit  pianna  play ! 

Ting-a-ting,  ting !     Hear  'ow  it  sing  — 

Come,  drop-a  some  money  in ! 
All-a  right,  Bianc',  I  turn-a  da  crank, 

You  shak-a  da  tamborin' ! 

You  t'ink  because  da  strit  pianna  work  by  crank  an'  wheel 
It  has-a  not  da  'eart  an'  soul,  it  don'  know  'ow  to  feel  ? 
Den  tell-a  me  w'y,  w'en  winter  come,  an'  snow  is  in  da  sky, 
It  play-a  "Good  OP  Summa  Time"  an'  mak'  you  want  to 

cry; 

An'  w'en  da  spring-a-time  'as  come  an'  everat'ing  ees  gay, 
You  laugh-a  ha-ha  !  —  so  'appy  —  w'en  da  strit  pianna  play  ? 

Bang-a-bang  bing !     Mos'  anyt'ing  — 

Drop-a  yo'  neekel  in  ! 
All-a  right,  Bianc',  I  turn-a  da  crank, 

You  whack-a  da  tambourin'. 

Las'  weenter  w'en  da  win'  ees  col'  an'  snow  all  over  lie, 
Our  li'l'  gal  Maria  she  ees  sick  an'  al-a-mos'  die; 

Den  poor  Bianca  stay  at  'ome  an'  I  go  out  alone, 

22 


"  Da  Strit  Pianna  " 

An'  in-a  evera  tune  I  grind  I  'ear  my  baby  moan, 

Till  " Fare-a-well,  My  Violet"  grow  loud  an'  float  away 

Virgin  of  Sorrow,  You  know  w'at  dat  strit  pianna  play ! 

Tum-a-tum,  turn  !  da  trouble  he  come, 
T3a  sorrow  he  enter  in  — 


All-a  right,  Bianc',  I  turn-a  da  crank 
•  You  shak-a  da  tambourin'. 

But  w'en  da  day  ees  nice-a  warm,  jus'  lak-a  da  Italee 
An'  chil'ren  play-a  'roun'  da  Square,  as  'appy  as  can  be, 

23 


"Da  Strit  Pianna  " 

Me  an'  Bianc'  we  work-a  so  'ard  to  mak'  dat  strit  pianna 
Play  "I-a  Got  One  Feel  forYou"and  maybe  "Rusticana"- 
Da  chil'ren  dance,  we  mak-a  da  mon  an'  everat'ing  ees  gay ; 
Da's  w'en  I  vera  glad  to  'ear  da  strit  pianna  play ! 

Tum-a-to,  to  !  bulla  for  you  ! 

Mak-a  da  plenty  tin  — 
All-a  right,  Bianc,'  I  turn-a  da  crank, 

You  shak-a  da  tambourin'. 

By  gran'  'otel,  by  cheap-a  saloon,  all  same,  we  do  our  part, 
An'  w'en  we  do  not  mak-a  da  mon,  we  live  jus'  for  our  Art ; 
But  w'en  we  catch-a  plenty  coin  we  verra  glad,  for  we 
T'ink  o'  dat  vineyard  w'at  we  buy  in  sunny  Lombardee, 
An'  'ow  Bianc'  an'  li'l'  Maria  goin'  'ome  some  day, 
Live  'appy  from  da  music  w'at  dat  strit  pianna  play ! 

Tum-a-tum,  turn  !   ever-r-r-a-one  come, 

Drop-a  da  neekel  in  ! 
All-a  right,  Bianc',  I  turn-a  da  crank, 

You  pass-a  da  tambourin' ! 


24 


MANNERS  AND   CUSTOMS 

IF  you  should  go  to  Gumbo  Goo 

And  explorations  make, 
The  natives  there  would  welcome  you 

And  cut  you  up  as  steak. 
You  shouldn't  swear  or  make  a  fuss 

At  such  a  demonstration  — 
It's  simply  one  of  the  cus-,  cus-,  cus-, 

The  Customs  of  the  Nation. 

If  you  into  Somaliland 

Should  happen  for  to  stray, 
The  folk  would  tie  you  foot  and  hand 

And  take  your  clothes  away. 
'Twere  vain  to  kick  if  treated  thus 

For  savage  recreation  — 
'Tis  simply  one  of  the  cus-,  cus-,  cus-, 

The  Customs  of  the  Nation. 

If  you  should  visit  U.  S.  A., 

They'll  meet  you  at  the  port, 
And  take  your  bags  and  trunks  away 

And  loot  them,  just  for  sport. 
But  do  not  grow  censorious 

At  such  precipitation  — 
It's  simply  one  of  the  cus-,  cus-,  cus-, 

The  Customs  of  our  Nation. 


THERE  sat  upon  a  water  plug  a  workman  unemployed. 

I  said,  "Good  man,  here's  twenty  cents  —  now  please  be 

overjoyed. 

No  doubt  you  are  a  worthy  person  very  much  in  need, 
And  so  you  will  appreciate  my  charitable  deed. 
So  try  to  lead  a  better  life  and  seek  employment,  pray." 
Now  I  wonder  why  he  cursed  me  as  I  went  upon  my  way? 

Upon  the  street  I  saw  a  girl  with  tearful  face  and  wan 
I  said,  "Here  is  a  quarter,  girl,  to  live  and  thrive  upon. 
Your  air  should  be  more  dignified,  your  hat  and  dress  more 

neat, 

And  you  should  surely  be  at  home  instead  of  on  the  street. 
Go  seek  some  lofty  sphere  of  life  and  learn  to  work  and 

save — " 
Now  I  wonder  why  she  laughed  and  threw  my  quarter  on 

the  pave  ? 

I  visited  the  pauper's  den  and  tried  to  soothe  him  there 
By  mentioning  his  squalid  rooms  and  dearth  of  light  and  air, 
I  showed  the  error  of  his  ways,  how  foolish  he  must  be, 
And  urged  him  to  reform  at  once  and  pattern  after  me  — 
And  do  you  know  that  wicked  man  grew  violent  and  rude  ? 
Why  do  the  lower  classes  show  such  rank  ingratitude? 


26 


THE   REAPERS 

ME,  and  Death,  and  my  Auto, 

Merry  of  mood  we  three, 
Went  for  a  spin  one  morning, 

Friendly  as  friends  could  be. 
"Pouff!   Pouff!   Pouff!"   said  my  Auto, 

And  old  Death  winked  at  me. 

Me,  and  Death,  and  my  Auto, 

Sped  with  a  strength  divine, 
Women,  and  men,  and  babies, 

Fell  in  our  deadly  line. 
"Hit!   Hit!   Hit!"   said  my  Auto. 

"Bully!"   said  Death,  "they're  mine!" 

Me,  and  Death,  and  my  Auto, 
Zipped  like  a  shot  through  the  town 

While  I  directed  the  lever 

And  the  Auto  carried  'em  down; 

But  Death  sat  back  on  the  cushions 
And  whistled  and  waved  his  crown 

Me,  and  Death,  and  my  Auto, 
Were  stopped  by  a  cop  on  the  hill. 

"Ten  dollars  fine,"  said  the  copper, 
"For  faith  ye  have  sped  to  kill." 

"True,"  said  Death,  with  a  chuckle, 

"But  the  pleasure  is  worth  the  bill." 
27 


SPRING  IN  WALL  STREET 

THE  long  green  bills  are  sprouting 

All  down  the  peaceful  blocks; 
A  cascade  falls  among  the  walls 

And  trickles  through  the  stocks; 
The  tender  lambs  still  gamble 

On  almost  anything, 
While  the  woodland  bear  deserts  his  lair 

To  sniff  the  scent  of  spring. 

The  market  breeze  grows  "active" 

And  hope  is  "ruling  strong." 
Once  more  is  heard  the  plunger-bird, 

Who  lifts  his  cotton  song  — 
The  song  that  tells  the  story 

Of  some  forgotten  king 
Who  played  a  lot,  until  he  got 

A  tumble  in  the  spring. 

Spring  wheat  and  corn  are  growing 

Around  the  Stock  Exchange, 
Where  the  shepherds  keep  the  foolish  sheep 

A-nibbling  fodder  strange, 
The  blithe,  bucolic  brokers 

A  scale  of  prices  sing, 
And  this  is  all  so  natural 

You're  sure  that  it  is  spring. 
28 


A  DIALOGUE  OF  DISDAIN 

HER 

You  woik  ?    Don't  make  me  laff,  me  face  is  weary ! 

So  you're  de  mutt  dey've  hired  to  bust  de  strike  - 
Say,  if  de  State  militia  wasn't  leary, 

Dere'd  be  a  passin'-out  fer  yours,  sure  Mike. 


You  woikin'  w'en  dere's  notin'  fer  de  Union 

But  nestin'  on  de  beer  kegs  down  de  line? 
Fer  nerve-tablets  strong  and  able  ye're  de  goods  wit'out 
de  label, 

So  excuse  me  if  I  says,  "Pooh-pooh  fer  mine ! " 
29 


A  Dialogue  of  Disdain 

Say,  draw  yer  pay !  it's  time  fer  yer  vacation. 

Back  to  yer  tank  and  pull  de  lid  down  too, 
Before  ye  meet  de  Brickbat  Delegation  — 

I  t'ink  I  hear  yer  mudder  callin'  you. 
Perhaps  y'  own  de  subway,  wit'  a  contract 

To  dynamite  de  boycotts  down  de  line  — 
Den  perhaps  ye're  jest  a  slob  holdin'  down  a  union  job 

And  deservin'  dese  kind  woids,  "Pooh-pooh  fer  mine !" 

HIM 

Say,  Lady,  ye're  de  Boat  to  Dreamland,  ain't  ye? 
Wit'  me  chust  General  Bumps  along  wit'  you ! 


I  wish  I  was  a  artist  chust  to  paint  ye 

A-swingin'  yer  harpoon  to  chab  me  t'rough. 
30 


A  Dialogue  of  Disdain 

Becuz  I  am  a  mutt  outside  de  Union 

Dey  pets  me  wit'  a  gaspipe  down  de  line 
And  de  Lizzies  passin'  by  gits  de  statuary  eye 

And  hands  me  out  de  wheeze,  "Pooh-pooh  fer  mine!" 

I  ain't  a  James  K.  Hackett  fer  me  beauty, 

I  ain't  a  Chauncey  Olcott  fer  me  con ; 
But  I'm  de  hook-and-ladders  w'en  me  dooty 

Is  dignifyin'  Labor  —  are  y'  on  ? 
O'  course  it  ain't  becuz  I  need  de  money 

Dat  I'm  a-bustin'  strikes  along  de  line, 
But  I'm  stuck  on  stoppin'  bricks  wit'  me  head  and  dodgin' 
kicks, 

And  I  love  yer  serenade,  "Pooh-pooh  fer  mine!" 


THE  HOUSE  BEAUTIFUL 

SHE  has  fixed  me  a  "smoking  room,"  panelled  in  green, 

With  settles  "severe"  of  outline, 
And  weathered  oak  tables  (outrageously  clean), 

And  couch  covers,  Persian  design, 
'Tis  a  chamber  too  perfect  for  me  to  employ 

The  pipe's  grimy  fiends  to  invoke ; 
So  I  ask,  with  a  sigh,  as  I  put  my  pipe  by, 

"Where  the  deuce  is  a  fellow  to  smoke?" 

She  has  fixed  me  a  library,  splendid  and  rich, 

(Mahogany's  frightful  to  scratch), 
There  are  shelves  full  of  novels  and  treatises  which 

She  bought  for  their  bindings  (they  match). 
There's  a  grand  antique  chair,  at  a  grand  antique  desk, 

Which  frowns  at  the  comfort  I  need, 
When  I  ask,  with  a  roar,  at  the  library  door, 

"Where  the  deuce  is  a  fellow  to  read?" 

She  has  fixed  me  a  living  room,  low-browed  and  deep, 

With  a  touch  of  "colonial  style," 
With  hand-finished  doors,  and  such  beautiful  floors, 

That  you  shudder  their  sheen  to  defile. 
Such  "careless  simplicity"  neatly  arranged, 

Mere  lounging  could  never  forgive, 
So  I  moan  as  I  fade  from  the  "living  room's"  shade, 

"Where  the  deuce  is  a  fellow  to  live?" 
32 


THE  MAGIC   OF  THE  MOTH-BALL 

I  MAY  not  sing  the  lavender  of  grandma's  gentle  prime, 
Or  the  hay  that  scents  the  meadows  or  the  odor-blowing 

thyme, 

But  the  anguish  of  the  moment  fairly  drives  me  to  compose 
Stanzas  to  the  little  moth-ball  that  preserves  my  summer 

clothes. 

The  marble-finished  moth-ball, 
The  safe  and  useful  moth-ball; 
The  unpretentious  moth-ball  that  preserves  my  summer 

clothes. 

She  laid  my  suit  so  tenderly  upon  the  shelf  last  fall, 

And  in  each  pocket,  crease,  and  seam  she  dropped  one  tiny 

ball. 

I  durst  not  groan,  I  durst  not  moan ;  I  only  heard  her  say, 
"'Tis  the  magic  of  the  moth-ball  that  will  keep  the  moths 

away." 

The  germ-destroying  moth-ball, 
The  hygienic  moth-ball, 
The  permeating  moth-ball  that  will  keep  the  moths  away. 

Through  winter's  long  and  bitter  days  it  weltered  in  its  fume. 
Like  asphalt  multiplied  by  tar  it  trickled  through  the  room, 
An  odor  so  miraculous,  so  subtle,  yet  so  strong 
That  neither  moth  nor  man  could  live  within  its  presence 
long. 

D  33 


The  Magic  of  the  Moth-Bali 

It  was  the  magic  moth-ball, 

The  highly  seasoned  moth-ball, 

The  medicated  moth-ball  —  nothing  could  withstand  it  long. 

Again  I  take  the  garment  down  with  feelings  strangely  sad. 
No  moths  have  gnawed  its  flowing  seams  —  oh,  how  I  wish 

they  had ! 

For  with  that  unrelenting  smell  still  clinging  to  the  cloth 
I  turn  and  flee  my  summer  suit  as  fled  the  little  moth. 
The  fumigating  moth-ball, 
The  time-defying  moth-ball, 
The   unforgetting   moth-ball  —  who   can  blame   the   little 

moth? 


34 


THE  WAIL  OF  A  WEARY  SPOOK 

IT  was  a  weary-looking  ghost 

That  sat  beside  my  bed. 
Apparently  he  was  a  most 
Dissatisfied  and  peevish  ghost, 

And  this  was  what  he  said :  — 

"My  duty  is  to  answer  calls 

For  many  mediums, 
To  nightly  visit  public  halls 
To  tumble  chairs  and  tap  on  walls 

And  play  on  horns  and  drums, 

"To  enter  seances  and  meet 

With  folks  I  do  not  know, 
And  when  my  business  they  entreat, 
In  spectral  whispers  to  repeat, 

'I  am  your  brother  Jo!' 

"And  when  I  flitter  to  the  Hub 

There's  little  rest  for  me. 
Some  dotty  Psychic  Research  Club 
Begins  my  character  to  drub 

Till  I  would  fain  be  free. 

"And  Minot  Savage  seems  to  look 

Upon  me  as  a  swiper 
As  he  remarks,  'Come  hither,  Spook! 
35 


The  Wail  of  a  Weary  Spook 

Please  take  this  package  and  this  book 
Across  to  Mrs.  Piper.' 

"From  Beacon  Hill  to  Panama 

I'm  billed  to  do  my  stunts, 
From  Steubenville  to  Omaha, 
From  Maine  to  Philadelphia  — 
Full  forty  towns  at  once. 

"In  life  I  was  a  quiet  cuss 

Who  led  a  quiet  life; 
I  little  thought  it  could  be  thus, 
That  death  could  be  so  strenuous, 

The  grave  so  full  of  strife. 

"O  Mister,  don't  you  want  a  spook 

To  work  about  the  home, 
To  mind  the  door,  to  help  the  cook, 
To  dust  your  hearth  and  ingle-nook 

And  haunt  you  in  the  gloam? 

"O  sir!"  —he  cried,  but  that  was  all, 

For  with  a  sad  sobriety 
He  vanished  quickly  through  the  wall 
To  'tend  a  far-off  hurry-call 

In  some  Research  Society. 


THE  VICISSITUDES   OF  MUSIC 

WHEN  Music,  heavenly  maid  !   was  young, 
(Collins,  forgive  my  stolen  strain,) 

Pan-shepherd  from  his  reeds  outflung 
To  lake  and  stream  the  wild  refrain 

Which  set  the  nimble  nymphs  a-dancing 

And  even  the  bearded  flocks  to  prancing. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid  !   was  young 
Goddess  and  priestess  fair  she  stood 

And  all  the  mysteries  she  sung 
Entranced  the  sacred  Sisterhood; 

Pure  Helicon  and  Delphic  caverns 

She  graced  —  and  entered  not  the  taverns. 

When  Music,  maid,  was  middle  aged 

A  showman  carried  her  away 
And  she  was  dramatized  and  staged 

And  made  to  caper  through  the  play, 
Threading  her  sweet,  ethereal  dances 
To  please  the  Public's  febrile  fancies. 

When  Music,  heavenly  jade !   was  old 
Her  lovely  gifts  of  fire  and  air 

Unto  a  restaurant  she  sold 
To  sanctify  the  bill  of  fare, 

To  soothe  the  fat  and  greasy  glutton 

Between,  the  oysters  and  the  mutton. 
37 


YOU  NEVER   CAN  TELL 

"You  think  you  do  —  but  you  don't." 

—  BERNARD  SHAW. 

IN  the  touch-and-go  of  the  daily  show 

Where  the  virtues  are  highly  prized, 
We've  a  conscience  sweet  with  the  mild  conceit 

That  we're  terribly  civilized ; 
And  we're  looking  down  with  a  Jove-like  frown 

On  the  Turk  or  the  Hottentot, 
While  we  spread  our  wings  like  the  perfect  things 

Which  we  think  we  are  —  but  we're  not. 

This  nation  of  ours,  as  it  tells  the  Powers, 

Is  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  brave; 
In  God  we  trust,  and  we're  awfully  just, 

And  we  haven't  the  sign  of  a  slave. 
No  peasants  toil  on  our  chainless  soil, 

As  labor  the  sons  of  the  Czar; 
For  we're  not  in  the  hooks  of  the  fierce  Grand  Dukes  — 

We  think  we're  not  —  but  we  are. 

There's  no  great  span  'twixt  the  Congressman 
And  the  humblest  Mick  in  the  ditch ; 
38 


You  Never  Can  Tell 

We  see  no  charms  in  a  coat  of  arms, 
And  we  don't  bow  down  to  the  rich. 

We  never  graze  with  a  thankful  gaze 
In  the  fields  of  the  parvenu; 

We  never  stare  at  a  millionnaire  — 
We  think  we  don't  —  but  we  do. 


39 


THOUGHTS  FOR  AN   EASTER  MORNING 

HAIL,  serene  hour  of  the  modiste  and  milliner, 

Financial  ruin  and  Paris  creation, 
When  the  suave  Tempter  of  Women  is  fillin'  'er 

Head  with  the  seed  of  demoralization  ! 
Spring,  you  declare,  brings  the  lilies  and  roses  — 

Don't  rub  it  in,  friend ;   I  know  about  that. 
/  am  the  bankrupt  who  paid  for  the  posies 

Spring  has  arrayed  on  her  Ladyship's  hat. 


Easter  and  bonnets !  the  subject  is  stale  enough, 

Annual  rhapsodies  flying  through  distance; 
Yet  there's  excuse  for  them,  since  we  know  well  enough 

Easter  and  bonnets  are  still  in  existence. 
Shop  windows  quiver  with  feminine  chatter, 

Sidewalks  are  blocked  where  the  darlings  converse 
When  the  French  milliner,  mad  as  a  hatter, 

Flaunts  her  "designs"  —  with  designs  on  my  purse. 


Ding-dong  the  bell,  and  we're  going  to  services, 

World  and  his  Wife  and  the  Dev  —  I  beg  pardon ! 
40 


Thoughts  for  an  Easter  Morning 

Adam,  in  broadcloth,  a  trifling  bit  nervous  is ; 

Eve,  on  her  tresses,  is  wearing  the  Garden ! 
Brazen  and  bright,  near  the  saintly  procession, 

Stands  a  new  milliner's  sign  —  can  she  see  ? 
And  if  she  can,  will  she  make  the  confession? 

"MLLE.  SATAN,  LATE  STYLES  FROM  PAREE." 


THE  REFORMATION  OF  COHEN 

COHEN  was  a  Nihilist 

In  the  humble  day, 
When  he  worked  at  sorting  rags 

Down  on  Bowery  way. 

Cohen  was  an  Anarchist 

All  the  years  that  he 
Held  a  job  as  sweat-shop  boss 

On  a  salary. 

Cohen  was  a  Communist, 

(Very  mild  of  tone) 
When  he  had  a  factory* 

All  his  very  own. 

Cohen  was  Republican, 

Mammon's  advocate, 
When  he  joined  his  factory 

To  a  syndicate. 

Cohen,  now  a  Royalist, 
Says  the  Upper  Classes 

Ought  to  hold  the  sovereign  power 
To  control  The  Masses. 
42 


BOHEMIA 
(A  DIALOGUE) 

SCENE  :  A  $$-cent  table  d'hote.    Pierre  and  Achille  vis-a-vis 
over  a  dappled  tablecloth. 

Pierre 

YES,  I  have  read  your  verse,  Achille. 
You  show  not  thought  alone  —  you  feel, 
Such  symbolism,  and  again 
A  spice  of  —  I  might  say  Verlaine ; 
But  with  new  spirit  and  new  tone  — 
A  style  and  manner  all  your  own. 
Where  did  you  sell  it?    Has  it  been 
Yet  published  in  a  magazine? 

Achille 

A  magazine !    What  can  it  do  ? 

Discerning  editors  are  few, 

I  hate  the  hypocritic  smirk 

With  which  they  all  reject  my  work. 

I  write  no  longer  for  the  press  — 

Pierre 

Ah,  editorial  sightlessness ! 
The  merest  trash  would  serve  their  ends  — 
43 


Bohemia 

They  buy  the  poems  of  their  friends. 
There's  a  small  matter  which  — 

Achille  (feverishly) 

—  Ahem,  — 
Your  paintings,  let  us  talk  of  them. 

They're  marvels. 

Pierre 

Here's  a  thing  of  mine 
Which  I  regard  as  rather  fine. 

Achille 

Such  atmosphere !  such  breadth  of  line ! 
Such  daring  treatment !     (Pass  the  wine.) 
Force  with  imagination  blent. 
Let's  see  —  what  does  it  represent  ? 

Pierre 

Why  do  you  hold  it  upside  down  ? 

Achille 

Ah,  pardon  !  —  thus.     Such  blue,  such  brown  ! 
You've  sold  it? 

Pierre 

Thousand  thunders,  no! 
See  how  the  Shy  lock  dealers  grow 
To  riches  while  the  buyers  cease 
To  recognize  the  masterpiece. 
44 


Bohemia 

Achille 

Quite  so.     Their  fat  wits  all  demand 
Cheap  art  that  they  can  understand. 

Pierre  (suggestively) 
Real  Art  must  starve. 

Achille  (nervously) 

Too  true,  Pierre. 

Pierre 

Speaking  of  starving,  that  affair  — 
That  loan  —  I  need  it  very  much. 

Achille  (aside  as  he  rises  to  go) 

I  thought  he'd  try  to  make  a  touch. 

(aloud) 
Yes,  yes  —  I  know.     But  fates  are  such  — 

(reaches  for  hat) 

Pierre 
Why  haste,  companion?    Must  you  go? 

Achille 

Even  a  genius  works  at  times. 
I  have  a  stirring  mood  for  rhymes. 
Good-night,  dear  friend.  '[Exit. 

45 


Bohemia 

Pierre 

Alas,  good-night! 

(finishing  the  claret  which  Achille  has  left) 
My  dearest  curse  be  on  his  pate  — 
I'll  drink  his  wine  at  any  rate. 


PHILISTIA 

SCENE:  A  comfortable  literary  atmosphere.  Discov- 
ered a  Novelist,  a  Short  Story  Writer,  and  a  Bust  0} 
Shakespeare. 

Novelist 
WHAT  of  your  Art  —  how  does  it  sell  ? 

Short  Story  Writer 
Immense !    I'm  doing  very  well. 

Novelist 
You're  still  in  quatrains,  I  suppose? 

S.  S.  W. 

Oh,  mercy,  no !     I'm  doing  prose. 
Sonnets  have  gone  from  bad  to  worse  — 
The  market's  very  dead  in  verse. 

Novelist 

Magazine  fiction,  I  have  heard, 
Has  gone  to  par,  —  five  cents  a  word. 

S.  S.  W'. 

Five  cents,  you  say  ?    Well,  that's  so-so  — 
I  sell  for  downright  sums,  you  know. 
It  pays  the  best. 

47 


Philistia 

Novelist 

What  is  your  rate  ? 

5.  5.  W. 

Oh,  that  is  difficult  to  state. 

I  study  first  my  editor 

And  find  how  much  he's  ready  for. 

How  did  your  latest  book  progress? 

Novelist 

Artistic  triumph  —  great  success. 
Sold  sixty  thousand,  more  or  less, 
Before  the  leaves  were  off  the  press. 

5.  S.  W. 

What  gave  it  such  a  splendid  shove? 
Historical  ? 

Novelist 

No.     Mostly  Love. 
Love  is  the  line  of  goods  that  takes. 
It  sells,  my  boy,  like  griddle  cakes. 
The  problem  novel's  seen  its  day 
And  business  fiction  doesn't  pay; 
No  more  the  brisk  and  steady  sales 
For  wonder  or  adventure  tales. 
But  give  'em  Love,  and  if  it's  neat, 
You'll  move  from  Grub  to  Easy  Street. 
48 


Philistia 

S.  S.  W. 

I  can't  progress  as  fast  as  you 
Selling  my  stories  as  I  do. 

Novelist 

A  royalty  is  much  the  best. 

It  works,  you  know,  while  you're  at  rest ; 

And  if  you  have  a  master  hand 

To  fill  the  general  demand, 

The  publisher  grows  confident 

And  lifts  your  divvy  ten  per  cent. 

S.  S.  W. 

That's  fair.     I  think  I'll  make  a  bluff 
At  turning  out  your  line  of  stuff. 

Novelist 

Sell  while  the  market's  ruling  strong  — 
It's  very  apt  to  slump  ere  long. 

S.  S.  W.  (consulting  watch) 

It's  four  o'clock  —  I'll  have  to  go. 
My  auto's  at  the  door,  you  know. 

Novelist 
Come  out  next  week  and  see  my  yacht. 

S.  S.  W. 
Thanks ! 

[Exeunt  in  opposite  directions. 

E  49 


Philistia 

Bust  of  Shakespeare 

Lights  of  Avon  and  Great  Scott ! 
Do  these  men  deal  in  coal  —  or  what  ? 
For  Men  of  Letters,  seemeth  me, 
They  handle  Figures  mightily. 


THE  DISTINCTION  OF   DASHER 

DASHER  at  college  was  "brilliant,"  they  say 
Rattling  good  fellow,  the  best  of  his  day, 
Free  with  his  money  and  quick  with  a  joke, 
'Varsity  pitcher  and  'varsity  stroke, 
Lovable  chap  to  a  certain  degree,  — 
Prominent  Yalceton  Man,  '83. 

Dasher  invented  the  "yippy-yip  yell." 
(Dasher  was  wild,  as  he's  willing  to  tell.) 
Easily  marked  to  stand  out  from  the  ranks, 
He  was  the  leader  of  rushes  and  pranks, 
Twanged  a  first  mandolin,  sang  on  the  Glee,  — 
Prominent  Yalceton  Man,  '83. 

Dasher  was  chummy  with  Harry  and  Tom, 
Dasher's  flirtations  enlivened  the  Prom. 
He  had  a  story  and,  Jove,  it  was  gay ! 
No  one  in  college  could  tell  it  his  way 
All  of  the  campus  raconteurs  agree,  — 
Prominent  Yalceton  Man,  '83. 

Dasher's  at  work  for  his  living  to-day, 
Hair  somewhat  thin,  —  a  suspicion  of  gray. 
Dasher's  sharp  wits  have  grown  plodding  and  slow, 
Adding  up  figures  for  Someone  &  Co. 
No  one  to  laugh  at  his  jokes,  —  can  this  be 
Prominent  Yalceton  man,  '83  ? 
51 


The   Distinction  of  Dasher 

Dasher's  old  mates  have  succeeded  so  far. 
Smith  deals  in  copper,  Jones  edits  "The  Star," 
White  tried  for  Congress,  defeated  by  Brown, 
Black  runs  a  railroad,  a  church,  and  a  town. 
Dasher's  one  claim  to  distinction  must  be,  — 
"Prominent  Yalceton  Man,  '83." 


52 


THE   PROBABLE   ORIGIN   OF   MAY   THE  FIRST 

PERHAPS  it  was  a  primal  curse  inherited  from  Adam, 

Whom  Eve  in  all  her  beauty  couldn't  placate, 
When  he  remarked  on  May  the  first:   "We  must  be  going, 
madam ; 

Our  lease  is  up,  and  it  is  time  to  vacate." 
And  so  a  busy  moving-van  backed  up,  so  runs  the  fable, 

And  soon  with  Adam's  household  goods  was  laden, 
With   fig-leaves,  apples,  furniture,  —  including    Cain   and 
Abel- 

And  they  were  off  to  seek  another  Aiden. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  tendency  inherited  from  Noah, 

Who  spake  unto  his  neighbors  disapproving: 
"By  jinks,  I'm  goin'  anywhar,  from  Naples  to  Samoa! 

I  don't  care  much,  so  long  as  I'm  a-moving." 
So  then  he  gathered  cats    and  gnats  and  elephants  and 
camels, 

And  stuffed  the  Ark  with  zoologic  lumber, 
And  when  at  last  on  Ararat  he  set  his  household  trammels, 

He  sent  out  cards,  "  Please  note  the  change  of  number." 

Perhaps  we  merely  got  it  from  our  grand  old  Pilgrim  Fathers, 
Who  packed  their  trunks  when  spring  was  in  its  gay 

flower, 

Braved  Indians  and  pumpkin  pies  and  other  heathen  bothers 
And  called  their  ancient  moving-van  The  Mayflower, 
53 


The  Probable  Origin  of  May  the  First 

And  so  on  May -day  —  let's  suppose  —  on  Plymouth  Rock 
they  tented, 

With  tables,  bedsteads,  kitchenware,  and  pew-sets; 
They  neither  rested  night  nor  day  until  at  last  they'd  rented 

Suburban  homes  all  over  Massachusetts. 

Or  maybe  old  Columbus  on  his  voyages  first  discovered 

May  moving  in  the  Caribbean  Ocean ; 
Or  thoughts  of  new  apartments  in  his  restless  bosom  hovered 

When  first  for  islands  strange  he  took  the  notion. 
'Twas  May  when  Galileo  said  about  the  earth's  rotation : 

"The  world  do  move !  "  —  howe'er  the  thought  revolts  us, 
Month  of  domestic  interchange,  soap-suds,  and  decoration, 

The  world  do  move  —  and  goodness,  how  it  jolts  us ! 


54 


SERVANT  GIRL  SONNETS 

I 

WHY  am  I  sad  on  this  delightful  eve, 
I,  in  the  prime  of  youth,  the  flush  of  brawn  ? 
Oh,  woe ;  oh,  tush  !  our  Lady  Cook  has  gone  — 

Aye,  with  her  bag  and  baggage  taken  leave  ! 

She  was  not  fair  to  look  on,  yet  I  grieve 
As  broken-hearted  droops  the  stricken  fawn  — 
Where  are  your  two  weeks'  notice,  Bridget  Bawn, 

Which  your  credentials  promised,  I  believe? 

But  patience,  Wife  —  be  brave  before  your  sorrow. 

(Come  hither,  pray,  and  light  the  kitchen  stove) 
We'll  go  and  hire  another  "jewel"  to-morrow 

From  Bink's  Employment  Bureau's  treasure  trove. 
I'll  take  my  food  to-night  from  your  fair  hand. 
(Don't  turn  the  gas  range  on  like  that  —  good  land  !) 

II 

There  is  no  Servant  Problem,  that  I  feel, 
To  any  housewife  willing  to  be  kind, 
To  help  the  Cook,  to  carry  coal  and  mind 

The  bell,  and  when  the  servant's  tired,  to  peel 

Potatoes,  and  with  sweet,  unselfish  zeal 
To  teach  the  housemaid  epigrams  refined, 
To  wash  the  dishes  with  devotion  blind 

And  help  the  waitress  as  she  serves  the  meal. 
55 


Servant  Girl  Sonnets 

The  trouble  with  you  women  is  that  you 
Expect  too  much  for  eighteen  dollars  per; 

You're  looking  for  a  lady  who  will  do 

The  sordid  household  jobs  you  ask  of  her, 

Without  consulting  her  innate  desire. 

(Gladys,  those  mashed  potatoes  are  on  fire !) 

Ill 

At  Bink's  Employment  Bureau  in  a  row 

E'en  now  I  see  the  eligibles  stand, 

"Jewels"  all  of  them —  the  prices  they  command 
Assure  their  precious  values  that  I  know ; 
But  this  one's  not  a  laundress,  t'other's  slow, 

The  next  too  delicate  to  lend  a  hand 
To  beating  rugs,  and  adds  in  accents  grand, 
"If  ye  don't  kape  no  coachman,  Oi  don't  go ! " 

From  out  this  haughty  band  dost  think  that  we 
Can  lure  one  Angel  to  our  humble  hearth, 

To  act  as  chaperon  for  you  and  me 
And  make  our  home  a  heaven  upon  earth, 

To  ease  awhile  our  lives  with  sorrow  goaded  ? 

(Gladys,  look  out !  Great  Scott,  that  stove's  exploded  ! !) 


IV 

Ah,  Fate  has  served  us  many  a  bitter  dole ! 

Do  you  remember  Mary  Ann  Me  Gee, 

Who  at  a  dinner  party  scalded  me 
And  served  us  pretzels  with  the  soup,  good  soul? 

56 


Servant  Girl  Sonnets 

Do  you  remember  Dinah  Jones,  whose  whole 
Life  was  a  blunder,  varying  in  degree, 
Who  used  your  Dresden  chocolate  pot  for  tea 

And  brought  on  salad  in  a  finger  bowl  ? 

Do  you  recall  —  but  why  the  details  give 

Of  that  from  which  we  fain  would  find  release  ? 

Without  a  Cook,  alas !  we  cannot  live 

Yet  with  a  Cook  we  cannot  live  —  in  peace. 

Oh,  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  forest,  Wife, 

To  dine  on  herbs  and  live  the  Simple  Life ! 


57 


THE  AUTO  AND  THE  IDIOT 

THE  Auto  and  the  Idiot 

Came  moting  on  the  scene. 
The  air  was  full  of  violets 

And  odors  fresh  and  clean  — 
And  this  was  odd,  because,  you  see, 

Their  fuel  was  gasoline. 

"O  glory ! "   cried  the  Idiot, 
"We're  forging  right  ahead. 

If  I  had  wheels  upon  my  feet 
I'd  also  run,"  he  said. 

The  Auto  moaned,  "It  is  a  shame 
Your  wheels  are  in  your  head ! " 

The  Auto  and  the  Idiot 

Ran  bang  into  a  fence. 
"To  steering,"  said  the  Idiot, 

"I'm  giving  thought  intense"  — 
And  that  was  odd,  because,  you  know, 

He  hadn't  any  sense. 

Adown  a  pleasant  country  lane 
They  journeyed  fast  and  far 

Until  they  spied  a  gentleman 
A-smoking  his  cigar. 

"I'll  hit  him  square,"  the  Auto  puffed, 
"And  minimize  the  jar." 
58 


The  Auto  and  the  Idiot 

Across  the  quiet  gentleman 
Right  merrily  they  sped. 

"Pedestrians  should  look  alive," 
The  busy  Auto  said  — 

And  this  remark  was  odd,  because 
The  gentleman  was  dead. 


59 


CONVENIENT 

(Members  of  the  Automobile  Club  of  America  have  gone  before 
New  York  magistrates  and  asked  that  five  bonds  be  issued  each 
member  in  advance  "to  avoid  the  inconvenience  of  arrest.") 

"MAGISTRATE,  magistrate,  give  me  some  bonds," 

Politely  remarked  the  chauffeur, 
"For  I'm  going  to  race  at  a  terrible  pace, 

And,  if  I  kill  somebody,  sir, 
I  don't  want  to  hang  around  wasting  my  time 
In  sleepy  old  prisons,  accused  of  a  crime." 

"Magistrate,  magistrate,  give  me  some  bonds," 

The  burglar  remarked  with  a  sob, 
"For,  sir,  to  be  frank,  I've  me  eyes  on  a  ban 

Which  I  think  it  me  duty  to  rob. 
So  give  me  some  bonds,  for  I  timidly  quail 
From  the  gross  inconvenience  of  staying  in  jail 

"Magistrate,  magistrate,  give  me  some  bonds," 

The  murderer  said  to  the  judge, 
"For  I've  loaded  my  gun  and  I'm  out  for  some  fun 

And  I'm  anxious  to  settle  a  grudge  — 
But  if  I'm  arrested,  I  want  to  be  foxy 
And  go  on  a  trip  while  they  try  me  by  proxy." 
60 


Convenient 

So  the  magistrate,  being  a  good-natured  man, 

Who  hated  all  gloomy  delay, 
Just  hustled  his  best  to  grant  each  request 

And  send  'em  all  happy  away. 
"For  surely,"  he  said,  "it's  no  less  than  a  crime 
To  play  fast  and  loose  with  a  busy  man's  time." 


61 


THE  PROGRESS   OF  A  PLUNGER 

SMITH,  the  financier, 

As  a  boy  worked  meekly 
In  a  Wall  Street  firm  — 

$7  weekly. 
Manager  of  house 

Said,  "You're  shrewd  and  tidy- 
I'll  promote  you,  Smith. 

Move  your  desk  on  Friday." 
(Smith  resided  then 

In  a  cottage  pretty, 
On  a  modest  street 

Out  in  Jersey  City.) 

II 

Five  years,  seven,  pass, 

Smith  is  still  advancing; 
Now  as  Treasurer 

Spends  his  time  financing. 
Salary's  increase 

Tastes  as  sweet  as  honey, 
For  he  always  finds 

He  can  "use  the  money." 
(Name  of  Jersey  town 

From  his  cards  is  hauled  off. 
Now  his  address  is 

"J.  P.  Smith,  the  Waldorf.") 
62 


The  Progress  of  a  Plunger 

in 

Now  great  dreams  of  wealth 

Set  Smith's  breast  a-riot, 
Lots  of  cash  in  sight  — 

Takes  some  on  the  quiet. 
Poker,  ponies,  stocks, 

Then  a  tangle  silly 
With  a  fair  but  wise 

Actress  vaudeville-y. 
To  the  Wall  Street  firm 

Comes  awakening  ruder. 
Next  morn  Smith  has  moved, 

(Residence  Bermuda). 

IV 

Vain  is  Smith's  fond  dream 

On  the  isles  to  fatten. 
Escort  comes  one  day, 

Takes  him  to  Manhattan. 
Smith  is  dragged  to  court, 

Counsel  grows  exacting, 
Giving  problems  in 

Adding  and  subtracting. 
Poor  arithmetic  — 

Clutch  of  law  is  closening. 
(Smith  has  moved  again: 

Residence  now  "Ossining.") 


ELLIS  ISLAND'S  PROBLEM 

(Due  to  the  bargain  steerage  rate  4,119  foreign  paupers  have  been 
landed  in  New  York  within  five  days,  with  8,000  more  on  the  way.) 

DOWN  the  greasy  gang-plank 

See  the  motley  pack  — 
Nothing  in  the  pocketbook, 

Tatters  on  the  back 
Pauper,  cripple,  criminal, 

Halt  and  blind  and  slow  — 
Has  Uncle  Sammy  room  enough  to  give  'em  all  a  show  ? 

Citizens  of  Babel 

Shipped  from  every  clime, 
Aliens  in  look  and  speech, 

Brothers  in  their  grime, 
Rag-tag  and  nondescript, 

Mark  them  as  they  go  — 
Has  Uncle  Sammy  room  enough  to  give  'em  all  a  show? 

Crime,  disease,  and  wretchedness 

Of  a  hundred  lands ; 
All  a  world's  incompetence 

Dumped  upon  our  hands. 
Are  our  furrows  ready 

Such  a  seed  to  sow  — 

Has  Uncle  Sammy  room  enough  to  give  'em  all  a  show? 
64 


Ellis  Island's   Problem 

In  our  tainted  sweat  shops 

Where  the  pauper  comes, 
In  our  reeking  tenements, 

In  our  festering  slums, 
Shall  we  add  these  thousands 

To  the  overflow  — 
Has  Uncle  Sammy  room  enough  to  give  'em  all  a  show  ? 


THE  MORMON  AND  THE  MOSLEM 

(A  PATTER  OF  COMPETITIVE  POLYGAMY) 


PEACE  be  with  you !  hear  the  tale 
Told  by  those  in  Jaffa  Jail, 
Told  of  Fuj  ben  Alkali, 
Honored  skeik  of  Alibi 

In  the  desert  Sahara. 
Allah,  tilah,  benji,  kahn! 
Sorrow  is  the  fate  of  man 

In  the  region  of  Boukhara ! 

Harum  Skarum  Mahmoud  Jig, 
Known  as  Fuj  ben  Alkali, 

Dwelt  in  peace  beneath  the  fig 
And  the  contemplative  sky 

Of  the  desert's  watered  places. 

Allah  prospered  his  oasis 
66 


The   Mormon  and  the   Moslem 


Making  it  a  Seventh  Heaven; 
And  his  wedded  wives  were  seven. 
Passing  sweet  was  the  polyg  — 
Amous  state  of  Mahmoud  Jig. 

Mahmoud  played  the  pious  tabor, 
Mahmoud  squeaked  the  pious  fife, 

Leaving  all  unpleasant  labor 
Unto  each  respective  wife. 
One  could  knit  and  one  could  sew, 
One  could  knead  the  yielding  dough, 
One,  unused  to  household  trammels, 
Groomed  and  fed  the  placid  camels; 
One  wove  Orient  rugs  unique, 
(Duly  sold  as  "real  antique,") 
But  the  Seventh  Wife  was  set 
Far  apart,  good  Mahmoud 's  pet. 

She  was  trim, 

Rather  slim, 
Eyes  a  pretty  turquoise  blue. 

Never  pettish, 

Seldom  frettish, 
67 


The  Mormon  and  the  Moslem 

Only  spoke  when  spoken  to. 
Kismet  boo!  zembur  mul! 
Allah  sent  the  miracle  — 
Bah,  bali! 


One  bright  morn  as  Mahmoud  bent 
O'er  his  prayers  before  his  tent, 
His  attention  was  arrested  by  a  cleric-looking  gent 
Black  of  coat  and  tall  of  hat 
Who  upon  a  camel  sat. 
Closely  filing  in  the  rear 
Seven  camels  did  appear, 
68 


The   Mormon  and  the   Moslem 

Each  one  bearing  on  his  back  a 
Faded  lady  in  alpaca. 
Quoth  the  Moslem  in  alarm. 
"Come  ye  here  for  weal  or  harm?" 


Quoth  the  stranger  with  a  smile, 
As  he  doffed  his  silken  tile, 
"I  am  Prophet  Smoot  McGee, 
Late  of  Great  Salt  Lake,  U.  T., 
And  these  ladies  whom  you  see 
Are  my  seven  better  halves." 

(Here  all  seven  bowed  discreetly 
As  they  drew  their  dresses  neatly 
Round  their  rather  slender  calves.) 
69 


The   Mormon  and  the   Moslem 

"God  is  good  !"   the  Moslem  cried, 

"As  is  writ  in  Al  Koran, 
'  Marry  early,  marry  often  — 

Heaven  bless  thee,  little  man !' " 

So  the  Mormon  caravan 

Lingered  near  the  watered  places, 
Pitched  their  camp  and  lit  their  lamp 

On  the  Moslem's  neat  oasis. 


II 

Peace  be  with  you !   Hear  the  tale 
Told  by  thieves  in  Jaffa  Jail, 
As  they  squat  upon  the  floor 
And  their  Hookhas  bubble  o'er, 
As  the  water-bottles  purr 
With  the  smoke  of  nard  and  myrrh 

On  the  desert  of  Sahara. 
"Allah,  illah,  benji,  kahn! 
Sorrow  is  the  fate  of  man 

In  the  region  of  Boukhara!" 

Saintly  Prophet  Smoot  McGee 

Called  upon  the  Moslem  often, 

Broke  his  bread  and  drank  his  tea, 

Mahmoud's  pagan  heart  to  soften, 

Oft  explaining  in  a  wary 

Way,  to  overcome  aversion, 

How  he'd  come,  a  missionary, 
70 


The   Mormon  and  the   Moslem 

For  the  ultimate  conversion 
Of  the  Arab,  Turk,  and  Persian. 
Come  to  lead  them  all  by  kindness 
From  their  heathen  ways  of  blindness. 

"If  you'd  save  your  soul  from  Tophet 
Come  to  Utah  !  "  cried  the  Prophet. 

"Be  an  elder  or  a  prior, 

Come  and  lead  the  Mormon  choir, 
Learn  each  doxy,  law,  and  tenet; 

Or,  as  soon  as  you  desire, 

We  will  send  you  to  the  Senate." 

But  the  Moslem  was  obdurate, 

And  the  words  were  lost  to  him. 
(He'd  an  eldest  son,  a  curate 

In  the  Mosque  of  Ispayim, 
So  his  faith  was  deeply  grounded.) 
But  he  sat  surprised,  astounded, 
When  the  Mormon's  exhortation 
Caused  a  most  profound  sensation 
Midst  the  wives  of  Alkali, 
Who  regarded  Smoot  McGee 
With  a  look  of  fascination 
Which  the  fond  but  jealous  eye 
Of  the  Orient  cannot  see 

Without  thoughts  of  strangulation. 
And  the  Moslem's  gaze  grew  green 
When  his  favorite  was  seen 
With  a  guidebook,  small  but  pretty, 
Titled  "Seeing  Salt  Lake  City." 


The   Mormon  and  the   Moslem 

'Twas  the  early  hour  of  prayer. 

Mahmoud  rose  from  slumbers  snug, 
Very  neatly  spread  his  rug 

Toward  the  East,  when  — 

Hully  chee ! 

Where  was  Prophet  Smoot  McGee 

With  his  wives  and  dromedaries? 


And,  by  Islam's  golden  houses, 

Where  were  Mahmoud 's  seven  spouses? 

Flown  away  like  freed  canaries ! 

Harum  Skarum  Mahmoud  Jig 
Known  as  Fuj  ben  Alkali, 

Stood  awhile  beneath  the  fig 
With  a  spy-glass  to  his  eye. 
72 


The  Mormon  and  the   Moslem 

In  the  distance  he  could  just 
See  a  fading  cloud  of  dust 
As  the  Great  Elopement  prest 
Toward  the  Wild  and  Woolly  West, 
Where  the  Customs  House  collects 
For  such  "personal  effects." 
And  his  clouded  glass  could  see 
In  the  distance  —  was  it  she  ? 

She  was  slim, 

Rather  trim  — 
He  was  sure  her  eyes  were  blue, 

On  the  knee 

Of  McGee  - 
Acting  quite  coquettish,  too ! 

Harum  Skarum  Mahmoud  Jig 

Stood  awhile  with  vacant  stare; 
Then  with  pious  impulse  big 

Fell  he  on  his  knees  in  prayer. 
"Allah,  when  thy  blasts  begin 

They  are  deadlier  than  knives. 
Allah  knows  it  is  a  sin 

To  have  more  than  seven  wives. 
Yet  our  markets  are  beset 

By  the  Yankee's  soft  persuasion; 
Night  and  morning  we  are  met 

By  American  Invasion. 
Even  in  Polygamy 

Rival  syndicates  arise  — 
Helpless  to  compete  are  we 

With  the  Yankee  enterprise ! 
73 


The  Mormon  and  the  Moslem 

Kismet  boo!  zembur  mull 
Allah  sent  the  miracle  — 
Bah,  bah  I" 


74 


THE  BIRD   OF  THANKFULNESS 

MY  pious  Pilgrim  grandpapa, 

Dun  as  his  life  and  murky; 
He  frowned  on  mirth  and  fol-di-ra, 
He  hated  carnal  joys  —  but,  ah, 

He  couldn't  hate  the  turkey ! 

He  loathed  a  witch  with  loathing  grim, 

And  oft  he'd  drown  a  tankful; 
His  days  were  hard  and  dark  and  dim, 
But  when  the  plate  was  passed  to  him, 
He'd  murmur,  "Lord,  I'm  thankful!  " 

And  so  he  sat  on  Plymouth  Rock 

And  like  a  monarch  feted; 
And  there  he  put  a  chopping  block, 
Where  many  a  gallant  turkey  cock 

Was  soon  decapitated. 

"For  babes,"  he  said,  "may  go  to  —  well, 

A  realm  of  sulphurous  savor; 
All  flesh  is  base,  so  preachers  tell 
But  only  piety  can  dwell 

In  meat  of  such  a  flavor. 

"And  for  this  day  gay  youth  and  lass 
May  have  the  Pilgrim's  blessing. 
75 


The   Bird  of  Thankfulness 

Good  Brother  Edwards,  kindly  pass 
The  pumpkin  pie  and  cranb'ry  sass  — 
And  help  yourself  to  dressing." 

Gone  are  old  Mather's  laws  of  blue, 

His  garments  sad  and  murky. 
The  goblins  and  the  witches,  too, 
He  took  with  him  when  he  withdrew  — 
Praise  heaven,  he  left  the  turkey! 


76 


THE  MOAN  OF  AN  AUTUMN  HUSBAND 

SHE'S   been   away  the  summer  through  at  Narragansett 

Pier- 
It's  been  a  case  of  clothes,  clothes,  clothes,  throughout  the 

jocund  year, 
But,  now  the  season's  growing  old  and  I  have  sighed  "That's 

all ! " 
She  says  she  wants  a  walking  suit  that's  suitable  for  fall. 

It's  summer  for  old  Adam's  sons  to  moil  and  toil  in  town 
While  Eve's  fair  daughters  seek  the  sea  to  get  a  coat  of  brown ; 
And  it  is  right  that  man  should  pay  her  debts,  both  great  and 

small  — 
Until  she  wants  a  walking  suit  that's  suitable  for  fall. 

I've  sent  her  twenty  trunks  of  clothes  (or  so  it  seems  to  me), 
And  yet  she  says  she  hasn't  got  a  costume  fit  to  see, 
That  she  must  wait,  and  that  she  can't  return  to  town  at  all 
Until  she  gets  a  walking  suit  that's  suitable  for  fall. 

Oh,  would  I  were  in  Eden's  bower  with  naught  to  worry  me 
But  plucking  leaves  for  gentle  Eve  from  our  ancestral  tree, 
And  when  the  autumn  leaves  came  in,  the  effort  would  be 

small 

To  find  for  her  a  russet  suit  quite  suitable  for  fall. 

77 


The   Moan  of  an  Autumn   Husband 

Alas  for  all  the  rights  of  men  held  captive  to  the  town ! 
The  more  you  dress  a  woman  up,  the  more  she'll  dress  you 

down. 

Yet  when  she's  back,  you  somehow  feel  it's  worth  it,  after  all, 
So  let  her  have  the  walking  suit  that's  suitable  for  fall. 


THE  POET  AND  THE  GAS  MAN 

A  POET  sat  with  aching  head, 

His  fancies  all  a-teeter, 
What  time  a  Gas  Man  came  and  said: 

"I  want  to  see  your  meter." 

"Oh,  Gas  Man,  Gas  Man,  answer  me  — 
My  lines  are  long  and  tractile  — 

Which  kind  of  meter  would  you  see, 
A  spondee  or  a  dactyl?  " 

"No  doubt  your  goods  are  very  neat," 

Replied  the  churl  cherubic, 
"I  ask  for  no  poetic  feet  — 

The  kind  I  want  are  cubic. 

"Your  method,  Poet,  has  its  faults, 

However  deep  or  clever. 
Your  flowery  meter  sometimes  halts, 

But  mine  goes  on  forever." 

"My  fair  muse  burns,"  the  Poet  cried, 
"While  soulless  magnates  lord  it." 

"Well,  let  'er  burn,"  the  fiend  replied, 
"Your  meter  will  record  it. 
79 


The  Poet  and  the  Gas   Man 

"You  bid  for  fame,"  exclaimed  the  wight, 

' '  In  phrases  well  inflected  — 
Though  monthly  bills  are  all  I  write, 

They  seldom  are  rejected." 

"You  have  no  soul,"  the  Poet  sniffed, 

Toward  his  inkwell  leaning. 
"The  field  of  fancy  ain't  my  gift," 

The  Gas  Man  said  with  meaning  — 

"I  lack  that  high  poetic  thrill 

Which  you  call  inspiration, 
But  wait  —  I  bet  you'll  say  my  bill 

Shows  fine  imagination." 


80 


APARTMENTS  IN  THE  SKY 

("  There  are  flats  and  apartment  houses  in  heaven,"  says  the  Rev. 
Ezra  T.  Sandford.) 

I  AM  growing  wan  and  peaked, 

I  am  fading  fast  away; 
But  I  cannot  go  to  heaven 

Till  the  sunny  first  of  May. 
There  are  no  apartments  vacant, 

I  must  lease  them  when  I  can, 
And  I  have  not  made  arrangements 

For  a  golden  moving-van. 

Oh,  the  Future's  full  of  questions 

Which  the  spirit  scarce  can  brook: 
Who  the  angel  to  tend  door-bells? 

Who  the  devil  to  be  cook? 
Will  old  Lucifer  obliging 

From  his  gas  plant  furnish  light? 
Will  they  run  a  dummy  waiter 

Down  to  Hades  every  night? 

I  can  see  the  angels  moving 

Up  and  down  the  golden  street, 
Signs:   "To  Let,  Apartments  Furnished, 

Modern  Service,  Furnace  Heat." 
Angels  take  the  elevator, 

Call  the  Janitor  in  vain, 
Do  not  like  the  decorations, 

Sniff  and  go  away  again. 
G  81 


Apartments  in  the  Sky 

There  will  be  celestial  grocers 

For  celestial  appetite, 
There  will  be  an  angel  laundry 

To  "do  up"  our  robes  of  white. 
Say,  oh,  say,  can  this  be  heaven 

With  its  suppositious  joys? 
Driver,  take  me  down  to  Hades, 

Where  I'll  camp  out  with  the  boys ! 


82 


A  CLUB  MEETING  OF  SOLOMON'S  WIVES 

A  WOMAN'S  club  meeting  of  Solomon's  wives 

Was  quite  an  important  affair; 
It  brought  a  "fresh  interest"  into  their  lives 

And  drove  Mr.  S.  to  despair. 
They  had  "deep  discussion"  on  things  of  the  hour, 

And  argued  on  topical  lines 
Till  they  made  such  a  racket  you'd  hear  them  all  clack  it 

As  far  as  King  Solomon's  mines. 

The  first  Mrs.  S.,  quite  a  dowager  stout, 

Presided  at  three  each  club  day, 
When  she  always  began,  "Let  us  try  to  find  out 

What  Kipling  intended  in  'They'  — 
And  let's  have  a  paper  on  Dooley  and  James 

And  The  Ethical  Conscience  of  Poe, 
On  Byron  and  Shelley  and  Marie  Corelli  — 

Such  topics  are  helpful,  you  know." 

Then  a  blond  Mrs.  S.  shyly  rose  to  her  feet, 

And  said,  showing  symptoms  of  scare 
As  she  fitfully  read  from  a  typewritten  sheet, 

"I  haven't  had  time  to  prepare  — 
The  man  Henry  James  —  I  mean  Poe  —  let  me  see  — 

I  think  he  was  born  in  the  year  — 
I'm  horridly  nervous  —  sweet  heaven  preserve  us, 

I've  got  the  wrong  paper  —  oh,  dear ! " 
83 


A  Club   Meeting  of  Solomon's   Wives 

Then  a  dark  Mrs.  S.  said,  with  withering  scorn, 

"How  can  such  a  talk  be  presented 
When  Byron  and  Shelley  have  never  been  born 

And  Kipling  is  not  yet  invented  ? 
We  have  Hebrew  poets  as  great  as  that  Poe  — 

Mrs.  President,  I  have  the  floor  — 
I  think  it  much  harder —        Here  the  chair  rapped  for  order 

And  the  meeting  merged  into  a  roar. 

Thus  dropping  the  poets  there  rose  a  debate 

'Twixt  feminine  disputants  able, 
'Midst  witty  retorts  and  finance  reports, 

Till  the  question  was  laid  on  the  table. 
But  when  a  refreshment  committee  was  formed. 

The  talk  grew  as  mild  as  could  be, 
Sweet  quiet  returned,  and  the  meeting  adjourned 

To  Solomon's  temple  for  tea. 


YE  OLDE  SMYTHE  INNE 

"SMITH'S  HOTEL,"  as  I  recall,  was  doing  rather  shabbily. 

"City  tourists"  going  by  considered  it  with  scorn; 
The  rooms,  they  said,  were  rather  small,  the  clapboards, 
painted  drabbily, 

Let  in  too  much  moisture  to  be  other  than  forlorn. 
William  Smith,  proprietor,  observing  this  distressingly, 

Said  one  day,  "I  guess  it's  time  for  bizness  to  begin;" 
Got  some  paint  and  lumber  out  and  labored  quite  caress- 
ingly 

Making  up  the  antique  sign,  "Ye  Olde  Smythe  Inne." 

Scarcely  was  the  shingle  out  than,  with  enthusement  franti- 

cal, 

Tally-hos  and  motor-cars  came  flocking  to  the  door. 
Cries  of  "What  a  cunning  place!"     "So  charmingly  ro- 

mantical ! " 

(No  one  mentioned  musty  halls  or  rat-holes  in  the  floor.) 
People  slept  in  stuff  y  rooms  and  said  that  they  were  "  quaint " 

enough, 

Never  flinched  at  soggy  pies  or  coffee  pale  and  thin, 
Spoke  no  word  of  creaky  chairs  or  porches  lacking  paint 

enough, 
Went  to  town  and  boasted  of  "Ye  Olde  Smythe  Inne." 

Years  passed  by,  and  William  Smith,  though  wealthy  to 

rotundity, 
Wasted  nothing  on  repairs  —  but  still  the  people  came. 

85 


Ye  Olde  Smythe  Inne 

Known  as  "  an  historic  spot " — result  of  Smith's  profundity — 
Smythe's  became  a  "landmark"  and  was  heralded  to 
fame. 

Finally,  when  William  died,  lest  vandals  might  destroy  it  all, 
Some  one  bought  the  dear  Antique,  preserving  all  therein ; 

Set  a  brass  plate  in  the  door,  where  people  may  enjoy  it  all, 
Labelled  for  posterity,  "Ye  Olde  Smythe  Inne." 

Names,  discreetly  uttered,  often  prejudice  a  jury,  oh; 

Anything  that's  second-hand  an  audience  will  win 
Through  its  very  shabbiness,  if  it  is  labelled  "Curio" 

Hence  this  truthful  story  of  "Ye  Olde  Smythe  Inne." 


86 


A  FINANCIAL   SERENADE 

IF  all  the  earth  were  steel,  love, 

And  all  the  sea  were  oil, 
And  all  the  sky  were  stocks,  love, 

And  Rockefeller's  spoil; 
If  chunks  of  purest  gold,  love, 

Like  pebbles  fledged  the  sea, 
What  would  become  of  you,  love, 

What  would  become  of  me? 

The  stocks  up  in  the  sky,  love, 

Well  watered  would  remain, 
Till  they  were  tightly  squeezed,  love, 

Then  gee  !   how  it  would  rain. 
The  steel  might  set  the  oil,  love, 

To  burning  all  about, 
But  the  water  from  the  stocks,  love, 

Would  fall  and  put  it  out. 

If  all  that  steel  were  yours,  love, 

And  all  that  oil  were  mine, 
How  long  would  I  require,  love, 

To  grab  that  share  of  thine? 
In  vain  you'd  turn  your  stocks,  love, 

To  bonds  of  wondrous  size  — 
I'd  make  you  sell  the  earth,  love, 

Ere  you  could  Morganize. 
87 


A   Financial  Serenade 

But  all  the  earth's  not  steel,  love, 

And  all  the  sea's  not  oil; 
That's  all  that  keeps  John  D.,  love, 

From  cornering  the  soil; 
That's  all  that  keeps  John  D.,  love, 

From  running  sky  and  sea  — 
And  it's  fortunate  for  you,  love, 

It's  fortunate  for  me. 


88 


FRENZIED  FURNITURE 

WHEN  Gladys  went  crazy  on  Simple  Designs 

She  said:   "Do  away  with  indefinite  lines; 

All  foolish  upholstered  devices  must  go  — 

Plain,  square  Mission  furniture  —  massive,  you  know." 

I  meekly,  agreeably  answered:   "That's  so!  " 

Then  trouble  began  when  a  lumbering  van 
Brought  furniture  built  on  a  mountainous  plan, 
Brought  chairs  elephantine  with  ponderous  legs, 
Brought  tables  like  platforms  with  crossbeams  and  pegs, 
Brought  bungling  brown  sideboards  and  copper-hooped  kegs. 

A  smoke-colored  burlap  was  hung  on  the  walls; 
Great  benches  like  battleships  stood  in  the  halls; 
Plain,  heavy  plank  bookcases,  desks  with  sharp  edges, 
Square-cornered  monstrosities  pegged  in  with  wedges, 
And  sickly  green  "art-ware"  in  deep  window  ledges. 

Simplicity  frowned  in  aesthetical  gloom 
From  every  hallway,  from  every  room; 

89 


Frenzied  Furniture 

We  sat  down  to  tables  our  knees  didn't  fit  in, 
By  angular  corners  our  elbows  were  hit  in, 
On  chairs  too  confoundedly  simple  to  sit  in. 

Like  giants  about  us  the  mighty  Things  sat 

And  bullied  and  browbeat  our  poor  little  flat, 

Till  pygmied  and  lost  in  this  wondrous  creation 

We  frequently  raised  the  faint  interrogation : 

"Can  this  be  Our  Home  or  some  new  Railway  Station?" 

Then  Gladys  awoke  to  her  error,  and  so 

She  turned  to  the  style  which  they  call  "Art  Noovo." 

"For  Nature,"  she  said,  "loves  lithe,  languorous  curves 

And  tenuous  tendrils  and  swivels  and  swerves." 

I  answered:   "She  does,"  though  it  got  on  my  nerves. 

So,  our  brown  Mission  furniture  hustled  away, 
An  "Art  Noovo"  outfit  came  to  us  next  day; 
A  wallpaper  figured  with  lilies  and  loops, 
And  cupboards  like  highly  adorned  chicken-coops, 
And  armchairs  suggesting  cadaverous  goops. 

On  "art  bronze"  tobacco  trays  lay  my  cigars; 
Lank,  taffy-shaped  females  on  platters  and  jars, 
Long,  swan-maiden  table  lamps,  stringy  and  swirly, 
And  silver-limbed  water-nymphs,  coily  and  curly, 
Gave  all  decorations  a  flavor  quite  girly. 

One  night  as  we  lay  in  our  serpentine  bed 
With  querlicue  carvings  at  footpiece  and  head, 
We  dreamed  that  the  bureaus,  increased  by  a  million, 
Were  dancing  an  "Art  Noovo"  demon's  cotillion 

With  armies  of  furniture  quaintly  reptilian. 

90 


Frenzied  Furniture 

A  spider-like  chiffonier  first  pirouetted 

And  near  a  fantastic  art-curtain  coquetted; 

A  crab-legged  table,  beginning  to  caper, 

Traced  out  the  designs  on  the  snaky  wall-paper  — 

A  bookcase  marked  time  with  its  tentacles  taper. 

A  horrible  chair,  in  the  midst  of  the  play, 

Threw  up  its  lithe  arms  and  came  hissing  our  way  - 

"O  murder!"  I  cried  in  a  cold  perspiration, 

"O  mercy!"  screamed  Gladys,  with  wild  intonation, 

And  fell  on  her  pillow  in  nervous  prostration. 

Then  unto  the  telephone  quickly  I  ran 
And  called  Dr.  Bottle,  a  sensible  man, 
Who,  giving  poor  Gladys  a  quick  diagnosis, 
Said:    "Here  is  no  use  for  my  medical  doses  — 
The  patient's  distemper  is  called  'Art  Noovosis.' 

"Remove  from  your  house  these  delirious  curves, 
This  eel- winding  furniture,  hard  on  the  nerves; 
Some  old-fashioned  couches  and  cushions  are  best, 
Some  soft,  easy  chairs  where  the  muscles  can  nest  — 
For  chairs,  after  all,  are  intended  for  rest." 


And  so,  from  that  moment  an  era  began 

Of  suiting  our  home  to  a  rational  plan. 

"For  really,"  said  Gladys,  "in  parlor  and  den 

One  likes  to  feel  human,  at  least,  now  and  then." 

I  feelingly,  earnestly  answered:  "Amen!" 


91 


"THIS  FEVER  CALLED   LIVING" 

"THIS  fever  called  living,''  said  Poe,  in  a  vein 
Descriptive  of  life's  ever  hastening  pain. 
The  phrase,  though  poetic,  small  knowledge  displays 
Of  the  symptoms  that  indicate  life  nowadays  — 
So  lend  me  your  ears  while  I  tell,  if  you  please, 
The  way  that  our  citizens  catch  the  disease. 

In  old  Philadelphia,  solid  and  sleek, 
Where  Sabbath  prevails  seven  days  in  the  week, 
Where  nothing  is  heard  but  the  snores  of  the  "copper," 
And  clocks  dare  not  run  (because  running's  improper), 
Where  citizens  yawn  while  the  trolley  cars  creep, 
Life  isn't  a  Fever  —  it's  more  like  a  Sleep. 

In  Boston,  where  only  the  chosen  may  speak, 
Where  the  bartender  seasons  your  cocktail  with  Greek, 
Where  the  maid  that  you  woo  sits  Minerva-like  frowning 
And  crushes  your  hopes  with  quotations  from  Browning, 
Where  the  gateway  of  Heaven  is  called  Beacon  Hill, 
Life  isn't  a  Fever  —  it's  more  like  a  Chill. 

In  dizzy  New  York,  money-mad  with  the  dicker 
Of  getting-rich-quick  and  of  getting-poor-quicker, 
Where  sky-scrapers,  stilted  high  over  the  town, 
Are  built  in  a  day  —  and  the  next  are  torn  down, — 
Where  crowds  meet  and  struggle  like  floods  through  a  chasm, 
Life  isn't  a  Fever  —  it's  more  like  a  Spasm. 

92 


DRIFTING 

(WITH  VARIATIONS) 

As  I  float 

In  my  boat, 
Drifting,  drifting  from  the  shore, 

Prone  I  lie 

'Neath  the  sky, 
Idly  dreaming,  nothing  more. 

In  this  Fairyland  of  play, 

City's  worries  far  away, 
What's  the  dream  that  I  am  dreaming 

As  I  float 

In  my  boat? 

"Pork  will  soon  be  running  high 

While  I'm  here, 
And  I  can't  be  there  to  buy 

While  I'm  here  - 
And  my  manager,  I  wot, 
Is  a  scoundrel,  like  as  not, 
And  is  stealing  all  I've  got 

While  I'm  here. 

"Heaven  knows  how  much  I'll  lose 

While  I'm  here, 
For  I  never  get  the  news 

While  I'm  here  — 
93 


Drifting 

Holy  smoke !   how  do  I  know 
Who's  absconded  with  my  dough 
And  skipped  off  to  Mexico 
While  I'm  here? 

"And  my  partner,  Anderson, 

While  I'm  here, 
Can  he  be  depended  on 

While  I'm  here? 
Nothing  ever  happens  right 
If  I'm  absent  over  night  — 
Say!   I'll  bet  my  hair  turns  white 

While  I'm  here." 

As  I  float 

In  my  boat 
All  my  troubles  left  behind; 

Drifting  wide 

On  the  tide, 
Free  of  heart  and  free  of  mind, 

Nature's  idle  waif  am  I 

'Twixt  the  water  and  the  sky 
Just  the  place  for  idle  dreaming 

As  I  float 

In  my  boat. 


94 


NATURAL  HISTORY  IN  THE  YEAR  3,000 

THE  HORSE 

THIS  hairy  mammal  (stuffed,  of  course) 

In  ancient  times  was  called  the  Horse, 

Before  the  auto  was  the  rave, 

That  edged  him  from  the  turf  and  pave. 

Although  he's  now  a  curio 

It's  very  comforting  to  know 

He  didn't  have  the  faults  that  mar 

That  horseless  horse,  the  auto-car. 

He  wasn't  painted  red  or  green, 

He  didn't  smell  of  gasoline, 

He  didn't  terrorize  the  road, 

Collide  with  fences  or  explode. 

But  otherwise,  I  grieve  to  state, 

The  poor  old  Horse  is  out  of  date, 

Quite  useless  for  our  age,  of  course  — 

Back  to  the  showcase  with  the  Horse ! 

THE  EGG 

THIS  rare  antique  is  called  an  Egg  - 
Don't  poke  or  handle  it,  I  beg. 
That  bird,  now  obsolete,  the  Hen, 
Once  gave  it  to  the  tribes  of  men, 
95 


The  Egg 

What  is  this  thing,  an  Egg,  you  ask?' 
Child,  to  explain  would  be  a  task. 
The  Egg  was  used  and  still  alive 
As  late  as  1905. 

It  happened  somewhat  thus,  you  see: 
Throughout  the  nineteenth  century 
The  Hen  was  under  contract  pay 
To  furnish  Eggs  from  day  to  day. 
In  1900,  text-books  state, 
There  came  a  walking  delegate, 
Who  told  the  chickens  on  the  pike 
Their  plainest  duty  was  to  strike, 
In  anno  nineteen  hundred  one 
A  hen  fruit  famine  was  begun; 
In  anno  nineteen  hundred  two 
The  Eggs  became  so  dear  and  few 
That  they  were  sold  like  jewels,  in  pairs, 
To  spendthrift,  reckless  millionnaires, 
This  Egg,  the  last  one  to  appear, 
Was  bought  for  the  museum  here. 
Though  it  would  be  a  reckless  treat, 
I  would  not  buy  this  Egg  to  eat; 
For  though  I  dote  on  ancient  wine, 
I  crave  no  antique  eggs  for  mine. 


96 


PRACTICE  AND   PRECEPT 

UPON  an  urn  of  beaten  lead 
This  lengthy  epitaph  I  read : 

"Here  lies  Lysander  Grime. 
The  rules  of  diet  he  despised, 
He  never  bathed  or  exercised  — 

In  fact,  he  hadn't  time. 

"His  simple  breakfast  did  consist 
Of  coffee  and  a  'doughnut  twist,' 

Which  hastily  he  swallowed. 
His  luncheon  it  was  simpler  yet  — 
Straight  whiskey  and  a  cigarette, 

And  then  more  coffee  followed. 

"When  summer  heat  began  to  rage, 
He  took  vacations  a  la  Sage 

By  working  harder  still; 
And  when  he  felt  a  pain  within, 
He  tippled  patent  medicine, 

With  now  and  then  a  pill. 

"In  winter  time  he  shunned  the  air 
And  took  the  Subway  everywhere, 

For  fear  that  he  might  freeze. 
His  offices,  from  drafts  secure, 
Maintained  an  even  temperature 

Of  ninety-five  degrees. 

H  97 


Practice  and   Precept 

"The  thing  that  killed  Lysander  Grime 
Was  lack  of  proper  means  and  time 

To  follow  mere  'hy-jeen.' 
He  worked  himself  to  death,  poor  man, 
Editing  lectures  —  for  he  ran 

A  Health  Food  Magazine." 


BROADWAY  IN  SUMMER 

WITH  never  a  fare  to  pillage, 
The  vacant  hansom  rolls 

Through  a  Deserted  Village 
Of  many  thousand  souls. 

Where  every  style  that  matters 
And  all  the  tucks  and  frills 

Of  milliners  and  hatters 
Have  vanished  to  the  hills. 

Save  here  and  there  a  bounder 
Whose  garments  moistly  cling, 

And  here  and  there  a  rounder 
Left  over  from  the  spring 

An  actor  on  vacation 

Thinks  with  a  hungry  smack 
Of  the  Grand  Situation 

He'll  get  when  Frohman's  back. 

Yon  'bus-like  auto  fleeing, 

In  hues  of  gaudy  paint, 
Is  full  of  tourists  seeing 

Gay  Gotham  as  it  Ain't. 

They  wear  a  look  of  wonder, 

As  much  as  if  to  say, 
"Why,  in  the  name  of  thunder, 

Are  we  here,  anyway?" 
99 


Broadway  in  Summer 

The  soda  fountain  bubbles 

In  cadence  of  relief, 
"Come  in  and  drown  your  troubles, 

Ye  Citizens  of  Grief ! " 

The  Dago  son  of  tillage 
Is  mending  asphalt  holes 

In  this  Deserted  Village 
Of  many  thousand  sou' 


100 


SONGS   OF   THE  UNSUCCESSFUL 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SPECTRE 

I 

I  AM  the  Ghost  of  Failure,  whom  all  men  shun  and  flee; 

I  drive  the  foolish  multitude  to  strive  with  panting  breath ; 
The  doctor  without  patients,  the  lawyer  without  fee, 
The  merchant  without  customers  grow  pallid  when  they  see 

The  grayness  of  my  presence,  —  I  am  haunting  them  to 
death. 

II 

And  some  I  mark  in  babyhood  who  never  shall  be  strong, 
And  some  I  stripe  in  manhood  till  they  droop  and  fall 

behind ; 

But  some  I  meet  in  Arcady,  a-journeying  along 
So  merry  in  the  sunlight  and  the  roses  and  the  song 
They  cannot  feel  my  Shadow.     They  are  blessed  as  God 
is  kind ! 

Ill 

I  meet  men  in  the  battle  when  the  fires  of  hazard  glow ; 
I  break  their  lusty  lances  and  I  turn  their  courage  cold, 

And  some  I  dog  in  silence  from  the  springtime  to  the  snow, 

101 


The   Man  at  the   Desk 

In  waking  and  in  sleeping,  —  yet  they  never  seem  to  know 
My  hand  upon  their  shoulders    till   they're   old,  —  ah, 
very  old ' 

IV 

I  am  the  Ghost  of  Failure,  who  haunts  the  daylight  gleams ; 
The  hero  meets  me  with  a  smile,  the  coward  with  a  gri- 
mace; 

The  artist  sees  me  in  his  paints,  the  plotter  in  his  schemes, 
The  king  confronts  me  from  his  throne  or  flees  me  in  his 

dreams ; 

But  the  Wise  Man  smites  me  to  the  earth,  —  he  looks  me 
in  the  face. 


THE  MAN  AT  THE  DESK 


THE  Man  at  the  Desk  has  a  patient  look 
As  he  writes  and  writes  in  his  copybook, 
And  he  bends  his  back  to  the  task  before 
Like  a  galley  slave  to  his  hand-rubbed  oar. 
Columns  of  figures  he  marshals  by, 
Piled  up  decimals  mountains  high, 
Which  seem  to  sing  to  his  well-ruled  brain 
His  long,  monotonous  life-refrain :  — 

"Debit,  credit,  voucher,  pay, — 
Discount,  balance,  day  by  day, 
Carried  forward,  interest,  duns,"  — 

So  the  monotonous  river  runs. 
102 


The   Man  at  the   Desk 

II 

The  Man  at  the  Desk  with  the  patient  look 
Has  followed  the  rule  of  the  copybook : 
"Early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise," 
Yet  he's  neither  healthy,  wealthy,  nor  wise. 
Honest,  industrious,  sober,  chained 
To  his  office  cell  he  has  long  remained, 
Dead  of  ambition,  busy  of  pen, 
Adding  up  figures  for  other  men. 

"Debit,  credit,  remit,  amount, 
Carried  forward,  close  account; 
Daybooks,  draftbooks,  interest,  duns,"  - 
So  the  monotonous  river  runs. 

Ill 

The  Man  at  the  Desk  with  the  patient  look 
Has  written  his  life  in  the  open  book. 
Has  charged  up  Youth  with  a  small  amount, 
And  crossed  off  Love  as  a  closed  account ; 
Yet  bright  are  the  tears  in  his  faded  eye 
As  the  column  of  figures  marches  by, 
Black  of  ink  and  with  mourning  brave, 
Like  a  last  parade  to  a  yawning  grave. 

"Debit,  credit,"  the  bugles  play, 
"Discount,  balance,  voucher,  pay, 
Carried  forward,  interest,  duns,"  - 
So  the  monotonous  river  runs. 


104 


The  Wrong  Girl 


THE  WRONG  GIRL 


BARLOW  might  have  carried 

Something  by  surprise  — 
Barlow's  gone  and  married 

A  pair  of  velvet  eyes. 
So  they've  packed  and  rented 

Somewhere  out  of  town ; 
Barlow's  quite  contented, 

And  they've  "settled  down." 

II 

Barlow's  loafing  habit 

Surely  needs  a  spur; 
Pretty,  downy  rabbit, 

There's  no  zip  to  her,  — 
Nothing  of  the  battle 

Women  put  in  men. 
She  can  pout  and  prattle 

Nicely  —  but  what  then  ? 

Ill 

Barlow's  Great  Idea 

Now  must  go  to  air. 
Surely  she  must  be  a 

Heavy  weight  to  bear, 
105 


The  Wrong  Girl 

To  his  collar  dangling 
With  her  fluff  and  floss, 

Like  a  courage-strangling 
Little  albatross ! 


IV 

Other  men  may  marry 

Women  right  or  wrong, 
Other  men  may  carry 

Burdens  and  be  strong,  - 
Feebleness  appealing 

To  the  Greater  Man,  — 
But  I  have  a  feeling 

Barlow  never  can. 


Barlow  needs  a  leaven 

For  his  mind,  no  doubt, 
What  in  earth  or  heaven 

Can  she  talk  about  ? 
Can  her  chatter  smuggish 

Carry  zest  again 
To  his  lazy,  sluggish 

Genius  of  a  brain  ? 

VI 

Well,  let  Barlow  tarry 

With  his  fate,  if  need ; 
1 06 


State's  Evidence 

Other  fellows  marry, 

(Other  men  succeed.) 
They'll  grow  great  and  wealthy, 

He'll  grow  small  and  poor, 
Shabby,  easy,  healthy, 

Happy,  —  and  obscure. 


STATE'S  EVIDENCE 


THER'S  stripes  around  me  summer  suit,  —  me  number's  83  ; 
It's  seven  years  fer  Spider  Jones  and  seven  years  fer  me ; 
But  William  Whipple,  where  is  he  ?    Oh,  married  to  'is  gal 
And  livin'  quite  respectable,  —  he  split  upon  a  pal. 

II 

The  nights  are  long,  the  days  are  long,  —  we  take  'em  like 

the  bunch,  — 
It's  chain-gang  to  the  quarry  yard  and    lockstep   back  to 

lunch ; 

But  William's  got  religion,  so  they  tells  me,  wit'  'is  gal, 
And  hollerin'  Salvation,  —  since  he  split  upon  a  pal. 

Ill 

This  prison  ain't  Delmonico's.     The  tableware  is  rough, 
The  beef  is  like  the  boarders,  jest  a  little  trifle  tough,  — 
And  William  Whipple  probably  despises  our  corral 

Since  he's  livin'  free  and  prosperous,  —  by  splittin'  on  a  pal. 

107 


State's  Evidence 

IV 

I  can't  forgit  that  window-job  we  engineered,  us  three, 
How  William  watched  the  street  fer  Jones,  who  passed  the 

goods  to  me; 

I  can't  forgit  the  fly-cops'  game  (I  think  I  never  shall), 
When  William  got  the  third  degree  —  and  split  upon  a  pal. 


It's  treadmill,  treadmill,  while  we  live,  and  quicklime  when 

we  die ; 
Yet  them  in  jail  has  whiter  hearts  than  some  what  sees  the 

sky,— 
Ther's  self-respect  in  prison  clothes,  and  what  us  convicts 

call 
The  honor  of  the  chain-gang,  says,  "Don't  split  upon  a  pal ! " 

VI 

Oh,  seven  years  is  seven  hells,  and  I'm  a-gittin'  gray, 
And  Spider  Jones  is  coughin'  in  a  peevish  sort  o'  way; 
But  we're  a-livin'  fer  Release,  —  then  William  and  'is  gal 
Won't  git  no  easy-jury  law  fer  splittin'  on  a  pal ! 


108 


SONGS   WITHOUT   SENSE 


A  SONG  OF  THE  ORIENT 

IN  Alkalim  by  Aburat 
A  hoary,  holy  dervish  sat 

Upon  a  rug  of  quaint  design, 
Marked  "$7.49." 

His  air  was  meek,  his  hair  was  white, 
His  whiskers  like  a  Dowieite, 

And  as  he  bobbed  his  bulging  head 
I  marvelled  much  at  what  he  said: 
"Kismet  il  allah, 

Alkalim. 

Zoo-zoo,  bishmallah, 
Hookah  —  zim  /  " 

Good  Moslems  came  from  Aburat 
To  where  the  holy  dervish  sat, 

And  listened  with  a  look  intense 
Of  deep,  admiring  reverence. 
And  ere  they  passed  they  gravely  stopped 
And  coins  into  his  turban  popped  — 
In  fact  he  drove  a  thriving  trade 
From  those  obscure  remarks  he  made: 
"Kismet,  il  allah, 

Alkalim. 

Zoo-zoo,  bishmallah, 
Hookah  —  zim  I ' 
in 


A  Song  of  the  Orient 

"Great  Scott !"  I  cried,  "it  seems  that  these 
Are  very  easy  folks  to  please, 

Here  is  a  royal  road  to  wealth 
Without  endangering  one's  health." 
So,  spending  seven-forty-nine, 
/  got  a  rug  of  quaint  design 

On  which  /  squatted  in  the  street, 
These  words  beginning  to  repeat: 
"Kismet,  il  allah, 

Alkalim. 

Zoo-zoo,  bishmallah, 
Hookah  —  zimJ" 

And  soon  the  folk  of  Aburat 
Came  rioting  to  where  I  sat. 

One  thwacked  me  briskly  in  the  eye, 
While  others  smote  me  hip  and  thigh; 
Then  swart  police  in  Turkish  mail 
Despatched  me  to  the  county  jail, 
Retaining  as  a  proper  fine 
My  bargain  rug  of  quaint  design  — 
"Kismet,  il  allah, 

Alkalim. 

Zoo-zoo,  bishmallah, 
Hookah  —  zim!" 

Next  morning,  as  I  quit  the  town, 
I  saw  the  dervish,  meek  and  brown, 

Selling  his  words  like  griddle  cakes. 

"Alas!"   I  cried,  "we  both  are  fakes. 
112 


A  Song  of  the  Orient 

We  both  have  played  the  self-same  tricks, 
Yet  he  gets  coins,  while  I  get  kicks  — 
Which  shows  how  people  always  pay 
To  hear  the  actor  —  not  the  play." 
"Kismet,  il  allah, 

Alkalim. 

Zoo -zoo,  bishmallah, 
Hookah  —  zim ! " 


"3 


A  LIE  OF  ANCIENT  ROME 

A  SENATOR  of  ancient  Rome 

Quite  late  one  night  was  going  home, 
With  his  hie,  haec,  hoc, 
As  he  stumped  along  the  block, 

And  the  moon  was  on  the  grand  old  Colosseum. 

Profoundly  wished  that  conscript  peer 

To  hail  a  hansom  charioteer, 
With  his  hie,  haec,  hoc, 
As  he  trudged  around  the  block, 

But  he  didn't  have  the  Roman  coin  to  fee  'em. 

At  last  he  said,  "Great  Caesar's  spook! 
Unless  I'm  dreadfully  mistook, 

With  my  hie,  haec,  hoc, 

It  is  nearly  three  o'clock 
And  seven  moons  are  shining  on  the  Tiber; 
I've  looked  too  much,  methinks,  since  lunch 
On  Scipio's  Falernian  punch, 

With  my  hie,  haec,  hoc, 

And  this  walk  around  the  block 
Is  hard  upon  a  jolly  old  imbiber." 

At  last  he  walked  so  far,  they  say, 
He  passed  the  noble  Appian  Way, 
With  his  hie,  haec,  hoc, 

And  it  gave  him  such  a  shock 
114 


A  Lie  of  Ancient  Rome 

That  he  almost  dropped  his  Latin  conjugation 
When  a  Pretorian  on  his  round 
That  rashly  roaming  Roman  found, 

And  he  said,  "Hoc,  hunc! 

If  ye  haven't  got  a  bunk, 
Come  hither  and  I'll  lock  ye  in  the  station." 

So  late  next  day  to  ancient  Rome 
That  Senator  went  meekly  home, 

With  his  hie,  haec,  hoc  — 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock 

And  his  caput  seemed  too  large  for  Polyphemus. 
When  friends  asked,  "Whither  didst  thou  hie?  " 
He  tersely  answered,  "Alibi, 

With  my  hie,  haec,  hoc, — 

I  have  travelled  every  block 
Of  this  bloomin'  town  of  Romulus  and  Remus !  " 


THE  CARES   OF  A  CARETAKER 

I 

A  NICE  old  lady  by  the  sea 
Was  neat  as  she  was  plain, 

And  every  time  the  tide  came  in 
She  swept  it  back  again. 

II 

And  when  the  sea  untidy  grew 

And  waves  began  to  beat, 
She  took  her  little  garden  rake 

And  raked  it  smooth  and  neat. 

Ill 

She  ran  a  carpet-sweeper  up 
And  down  the  pebbly  sand. 

She  said,  "This  is  the  only  way 
To  keep  it  clean  —  good  land ! " 

IV 

And  when  the  gulls  came  strolling  by, 

She  drove  them  shrilly  back, 
Remarking  that  it  spoiled  the  beach, 

"The  way  them  birds  do  track." 
116 


The  Cares  of  a  Caretaker 

V 

She  fed  the  catfish  clotted  cream 
And  taught  it  how  to  purr  — 

And  were  a  catfish  so  endowed 
She  would  have  stroked  its  fur. 

VI 

She  stopped  the  little  sea-urchins 
That  travelled  by  in  pairs, 

And  washed  their  dirty  faces  clean 
And  combed  their  little  hairs. 

VII 

She  spread  white  napkins  on  the  surf 
With  which  she  fumed  and  fussed. 

"When  it  ain't  covered  up,"  she  said, 
"It  gits  all  over  dust." 

VIII 

She  didn't  like  to  see  the  ships 
With  all  the  waves  act  free, 

And  so  she  got  a  painted  sign 
Which  jead:   "  Keep  oft  the  Sea." 

IX 

But  dust  and  splutter  as  she  might, 

Her  work  was  sadly  vain; 
However  oft  she  swept  the  beach, 

The  tides  came  in  again. 
117 


The  Cares  of  a  Caretaker 

X 

And  she  was  sometimes  wan  and  worn 
When  she  retired  to  bed  — 

"A  woman's  work  ain't  never  done," 
That  nice  old  lady  said. 


118 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   DANCING  DERVISHES 

THIS  is  the  song  that  the  Dervishes  sing 
As  they  whirl,  as  they  skirl,  in  a  magic  ring, 
As  cheek  by  jowl 
They  holler  and  howl 

And  prance  and  dance  and  whoop  and  wail 
Till  their  lips  are  pale, 
In  the  land  of  the  mad  Mad  Mullah, 
As  they  caper  and  kick 
Like  Haroun  el  Nick 
In  the  moon  of  the  Blue  Abdullah: 
"Allah  il  Allah! 

Do-see-do  ! 
Yip!     Bismallah 
And  up  we  go! 
Bang !     Bang ! 

There  was  a  man  in  Khoordistan, 
A  very  holy  Mussulman 

From  the  mosque  of  the  Great  Malecca, 
Who  had  nine  wives  in  his  fair  hareem  — 
But  he  left  'em  all  in  a  prophet's  dream 

And  walked  on  his  hands  to  Mecca. 
Kismet  bang!  but  he  perspired, 
And  when  his  hands  grew  very  tired : 

"I'll  rest  a  while,"  he  said; 
119 


The  Song  of  the   Dancing  Dervishes 

So  upside-down  he  stood,  and  thrust 
His  holy  turban  in  the  dust 
And  slept  upon  his  head. 
Boo!  boo! 
Yip,  hurool 

He  was  a  good  Mohammedan, 
A  very  famous  Mussulman 

In  the  faith  of  the  mad  Mad  Mullah!" 
Sing  the  Dervishes  as  they  whirl  and  whiz, 
As  they  jip  and  jog 
Through  a  maniac  clog 

In  the  moon  of  the  Blue  Abdullah. 

This  is  the  song  that  the  Dervishes  shout, 
Turning  cartwheels  in  and  out, 
While  the  Slaves  of  the  Sheik 
Bellow  and  shriek, 

While  pilgrims  come  to  the  tum-tum-tum 
Of  the  kettledrum, 
As  long  as  the  daylight  lingers, 
As  they  throw  fierce  spasms 
Across  the  chasms 
And  whistle  upon  their  fingers: 
"Allah  il  Allah  1 

Do-see-do  I 
Yip !    Bismallah 
And  up  we  go! 
Bang !     Bang ! 

In  Badahir  an  old  Emir 

Balanced  a  broomstick  on  his  ear 
121 


The  Song  of  the  Dancing  Dervishes 

For  three  successive  winters. 
Upon  that  ear  his  faith  he  pinned 
Till  up  there  came  a  desert  wind 

And  broke  the  broom  to  splinters. 
Kismet  bang !  but  he  was  sad  — 
Being  the  only  broom  he  had 

Its  loss  he  did  deplore  — 
And  so  to  gain  his  soul's  repose 
He  balanced  toothpicks  on  his  nose 

For  seven  summers  more. 
Hoo  I  hoo  ! 
Kalamazoo  ! 

A  faithful  Moslemite  was  he, 
An  ardent,  earnest  devotee 

To  the  faith  of  the  mad  Mad  Mullah !" 
Sing  the  Dervishes  as  they  whirl  and  whiz, 
As  they  skip  and  hop 
And  flip  and  flop 

In  the  moon  of  the  Blue  Abdullah. 


122 


A  BASS   SOLO 

THE  Basso  Pr-r-rofundo,  in  evening  dress, 
He  tackles  the  ro-ho-ho-ho-ling  sea, 

Boom,  boom ! 

And  in  subway  staccato  attempts  to  express 
The  mar-r-riner's  ag-o-nee, 

Boom,  boom ! 
'Tis  the  song  of  the  anvil,  asleep  in  the  deep, 

In  a  dar-r-rk  br-r-rown,  minor-r-r  key, 
And  he  swings  as  he  sings,  and  he  sings  as  he  swings, 
To  the  depths, 
To  the  depths  of  the 

X 
Y 
Z. 

See !   a  ship  in  dis-tr-r-ress,  with  tattered  shroud ! 
Is  none  who  will  su-hu-hu-hu-cor  bring  ? 

Boom,  boom  ! 

But  the  stor-r-rm  r-r-rocks  long,  and  the  surf  beats  loud  — 
While  the  Basso  continues  to  sing, 

Boom,  boom ! 
Lo !   the  vessel  r-r-reels  and  is  sinking  fast, 

But  the  vo-ca-list,  what  cares  he  ? 

For  he  frowns  as  they  drown,  and  they  drown  as  he  frowns, 
In  the  depths, 
In  the  depths  of  the 

Z 
Y 

Z. 

123 


A   Bass  Solo 

There's  many  a  br-r-rave,  br-r-rave,  gallant  soul, 
Who  sank  with  a  gur-hur-hur-hur-gling  throat, 

Boom,  boom ! 

In  the  cr-r-ruel,  cr-r-ruel  sur-r-rge  and  deadly  roll 
Of  the  Basso's  lower  note, 

Boom,  boom ! 
He's  the  Stor-r-rm  King's  pal,  and  he  laughs  ha !  ha  ! 

His  mur-r-rderous  wor-r-rk  to  see  — 
Let  them  howl  as  he  growls,  let  him  growl  as  they  how 
In  the  depths, 
In  the  depths  of  the 

X 
Y 
Z. 

Oh,  the  Basso  Prof  undo  is  r-r-reckless  of  life 
When  he  sings  on  the  co-ho-ho-honcert  stage, 

Boom,  boom ! 

Yet  he's  kind  to  his  childr-ren  and  meek  to  his  wife 
When  he  asks  for  his  weekly  wage, 

Boom,  boom ! 
And  it's  str-r-ange  that  this  happy,  domestic  man 

Such  a  ter-r-rible  fiend  can  be, 

When  he  growls  as  they  howl,  and  they  howl  as  he  growls. 
To  the  depths, 
To  the  depths  of  the 

X 
Y 
Z. 


124 


THE  SEA   SERPANT 

AN    ACCURATE    DESCRIPTION 

A-SLEEPIN'  at  length  on  the  sand, 

Where  the  beach  was  all  tidy  and  clean, 

A-strokin'  his  scale  with  the  brush  on  his  tail 
The  wily  Sea  Serpant  I  seen. 

And  what  was  his  color?  you  asks, 

And  how  did  he  look  ?   inquires  you, 

I'll  be  busted  and  blessed  if  he  didn't  look  jest 
Like  you  would  of  expected  'im  to ! 

His  head  was  the  size  of  a  —  well, 

The  size  what  they  always  attains; 

He  whistled  a  tune  what  was  built  like  a  prune, 
And  his  tail  was  the  shape  o'  his  brains. 

i. 

His  scales  they  was  ruther  —  you  know  — 

Like  the  leaves  what  you  pick  off  o'  eggs; 
And  the  way  o'  his  walk  —  well,  it's  useless  to  talk, 
Fer  o'  course  you've  seen  Sea  Serpants'  legs. 

His  length  it  was  seventeen  miles, 

Or  fathoms,  or  inches,  or  feet 
(Me  memory's  sich  that  I  can't  recall  which, 

Though  at  figgers  I've  seldom  been  beat). 
I25 


The  Sea  Serpant 

And  I  says  as  I  looks  at  the  beast, 

"He  reminds  me  o'  somethin'  I've  seen  — 

Is  it  candy  or  cats  or  humans  or  hats, 
Or  Fenimore  Cooper  I  mean?" 

And  as  I  debated  the  point, 

In  a  way  that  I  can't  understand, 

The  Sea  Serpant  he  disappeared  in  the  sea 
And  walked  through  the  ocean  by  land. 

And  somehow  I  knowed  he'd  come  back, 
So  I  marked  off  the  place  with  me  cap; 

'Twas  Latitude  West  and  Longitude  North 
And  forty-eight  cents  by  the  map. 

And  his  length  it  was  seventeen  miles, 

Or  inches,  or  fathoms,  or  feet 
(Me  memory's  sich  that  I  can't  recall  which, 

Though  at  figgers  I've  seldom  been  beat). 


126 


THE  EDUCATION  OF   GRANDPA 


GRANDPA,  in  a  nursemaid's  role, 
Took  small  Henry  for  a  stroll. 
Henry,  when  the  time  was  pat, 
Poked  a  stick  through  Grandpa's  hat. 
Grandpa,  at  this  childish  joke, 
Rather  petulantly  spoke. 
"This,"  said  Henry  with  contrition, 
"Sweetens  Grandpa's  disposition." 

II 

Henry  stretched  a  wire  slack 
Right  across  his  Grandpa's  track, 
Calling  sweetly,  "Grandpa  dear, 
I've  a  great  surprise  —  come  here !" 
Grandpa,  willing  to  admire, 
Came  and  tripped  across  the  wire. 
Henry  cried,  "This  visitation 
Trains  your  powers  of  observation." 

Ill 

Henry,  with  a  care  discreet, 
Placed  a  tack  upon  a  seat. 
Grandpa,  with  rheumatic  joint, 

Sat  himself  upon  the  point. 
127 


The   Education  of  Grandpa 

Joyful  light  filled  Henry's  eye 
When  his  grandsire  leaped  on  high. 
"This  will  teach  you  readiness  — 
Quick  response  in  time  of  stress!" 

IV 

Ere  this  quiet  stroll  was  done 
Henry  tried  another  one  — 
Hit  his  Grandpa  with  a  can, 
Whereupon  that  gentleman, 
Every  aged  nerve  a-tingle, 
Walloped  Henry  with  a  shingle. 
"Joy!"   said  Henry,  'twixt  his  cries, 
"This  gives  Grandpa  exercise!" 


When  the  skies  were  all  a-gloam 
Graybeard  man  and  child  strolled  home; 
Grandpa's  limbs  were  somewhat  battered 
And  his  modest  clothes  were  tattered 
And  he  leaned  upon  his  cane, 
Like  a  being  wracked  with  pain. 
But  the  grandchild's  tone  was  gay, 
"Grandpa's  learned  a  lot  to-day." 


128 


THE   GRAY   SPOOKY-SPOOK 

THE  gray  Spooky-spook  is  a  creature  so  weird 

That  he  frightens  himself  half  to  death, 
As  he  shrieks  through  the  midnight  and  tugs  at  his  beard 

While  good  folk  lie  holding  their  breath ; 
And  he  faints  dead  away  till  the  first  dawn  of  day, 

While  his  blood  runs  as  cold  as  a  clam, 
As  he  sits  in  his  gloom  on  the  roof  of  a  tomb 

And  thinks:   "How  uncanny  I  am!" 

Whee !     Gadzook ! 

For  the  gray  Spooky-spook  — 

What  a  cheerful  companion  he  is ! 
As  he  tells,  turning  green, 
Of  the  murders  he's  seen, 

Till  his  knees  and  his  knuckles  are  friz. 

When  the  gray  Spooky-spook  has  a  mind  to  be  gay 
He  does  what  you'd  think  he  would  do  — 
He  sits  in  a  graveyard  and  groans  in  a  way 

That  makes  all  the  owls  inquire:   "Who?" 
He  tells  how  his  Granduncle  Anderson  died 

Of  poison  and  hunger  and  fright ; 
Then  he  weeps  on  your  shoulder,  remarking  with  pride: 

"Come,  let  us  be  merry  to-night!" 

Shoo !     Gadzook ! 

For  the  gray  Spooky-spook  — 

A  jovial  character  he, 

K  129 


The  Gray   Spooky-Spook 

As  he  tells  how  it  feels 
To  be  hanged  by  the  heels 

Or  shot  with  one's  back  to  a  tree. 

When  the  gray  Spooky-spook  goes  to  visit  the  sick 

He  then  looks  especially  sad, 
As  he  murmurs:  "Tut-tut!  change  your  medicine  quick, 

For  you're  looking  most  frightfully  bad  !" 
Then  he  reads  you  a  dirge  on  cremation  and  chill 

And  the  death-rate  from  sunstroke  and  sorrow, 
And  he  sighs  as  he  goes:   "You  seem  hopelessly  ill, 

But  I'm  sure  you'll  feel  better  to-morrow." 

Hist !     Gadzook ! 

For  the  gray  Spooky-spook, 

Who's  as  cheerful  and  gay  as  a  pall ; 
And  it  gives  me  a  thrill 
Of  delight,  when  I'm  ill, 

To  know  that  the  Spooky  will  call. 


130 


THE  HAUNTED   ELEVATOR 

OUR  new  elevator  boy  got  rather  impudent  one  day, 

And  he  said  the  work  was  much  too  hard,  considering  the 

pay; 
That  he  didn't  like  the  wages,  and  he  "couldn't  stand  de 

graft." 
So  he  quit  the  job,  and  left  his  car  a-hanging  in  the  shaft. 

I  was  on  the  sixteenth  story  when  the  incident  occurred, 
But  I  didn't  know  the  boy  had  quit  —  in  fact,  I  hadn't 

heard  — 

So  I  went  into  the  hallway,  and  I  gave  the  bell  a  punch 
To  call  up  the  elevator,  which  would  take  me  down  to  lunch. 

So  the  bell  went  tinkle  down  the  shaft,  the  oily  cable  slid, 

And  the  elevator  started,  as  it  usually  did  ; 

But  when  it  had  reached  my  floor  and  stopped,  I  couldn't 

understand  — 
For  the  car  was  running  by  itself  —  as  empty  as  your  hand  ! 

Long  I  gazed   into   the  vacant  car,  enwrapped   in  study 

brown, 
When  a  Voice  from  out  the  void  inquired,  distinctly,  "Going 

down  ?  " 

So  I  boldly  stepped  into  the  cage,  which  started  to  descend, 
While  I  wondered,  rather  vaguely,  where  this  eery  trip  would 

end. 


The  Haunted  Elevator 

When  we  passed  the  second  landing  I  began  to  breathe  once 

more, 
For  the  car  it  stopped  abruptly,  and  the  Voice  exclaimed, 

"Ground  floor!" 

But  I  left  the  elevator  with  some  nervous,  backward  looks, 
For  I  have  small  faith  in  spirits,  though  I  hate  the  thought 

of  spooks. 

When  I  told  the  building  manager,  his  anxious  face  grew  glad. 
"Sure!  the  elevator's  haunted,  but  the  fact  is  not  so  bad; 
For  the  Ghost  will  do  the  job  and  never  ask  for  any  pay, 
While  I  have  to  give  a  mortal  kid  a  dollar  ten  a  day." 

Thus  the  situation  faced  us,  and  of  this  we  made  the  most, 
Though  it's  rather  skittish  business  being  lifted  by  a  ghost. 
Yet  the  spook  was  always  courteous  and  prompt  to  mind  the 

bell, 
And  the  tenants  all  agreed  he  did  his  business  very  well. 

All  this  time  the  building  manager  he  laughed  in  fiendish  glee. 
"It  is  very  economical,  this  hiring  spooks,"  said  he. 
But  the  cooler-headed  tenants  had  premonitory  fears  — 
Ah,  distrust  a  ghost  whose  salary  is  two  months  in  arrears ! 

Yes,  our  direst  fears  were  realized.  Upon  the  first  of  May, 
When  the  mortal  clerks  and  laborers  were  getting  of  their 

pay, 

Then  the  Unseen  Operator  seemed  to  feel  the  bitter  slight, 
And  he  went  upon  a  weird  and  ghostly  strike,  as  well  he 

might. 

132 


The  Haunted   Elevator 

When  the  passengers  were  going  up  eleven  floors  or  so, 
Disregarding  all  the  signals,  he  continued  still  to  go ; 
Eighteen,  twenty  floors  he  mounted,  holding  silently  aloof, 
Till  the  passengers  observed  that  we  were  going  through  the 
roof. 

Through  the  roof  and  ever  upward  rushed  the  elevator  high, 
On  an  unseen  shaft  still  rising  to"  the  regions  of  the  sky, 
Till  we  reached  some  floor  invisible,  a  mile  above  the  town, 
Then  the  spectre  gave  a  chuckle  as  he  chortled,  "Going 
down!" 

And  so  down,  down,  down  we  started,  at  a  rate  to  freeze  your 

blood, 
Till  we  reached  the  building  proper  with  a  most  uncanny 

thud. 
Then  we  hit  the  first  floor  landing,  where  the  spectre  gave  a 

shout, 
"This  car  going  down  to  Hades  —  here's  your  chance  to 

tumble  out!" 

So  the  panic-stricken  passengers  from  out  the  car  all  cleared, 
As  it  sank  right  through  the  basement  and  completely  dis- 
appeared ; 

Elevator,  cage,  and  cable  vanished  from  the  sight  of  men, 
And  I'm  positively  certain  it  was  never  seen  again. 


THE  POWERFUL 
*  EYES  «T 

o  JERET1Y  TAIT 


AN  old  sea-dog  on  a  sailor's  log 

Thus  spake  to  a  passer-by: 
"The  most  onnatteral  thing  on  earth 

Is  the  power  o'  the  human  eye  — 
Oh,  bless  me!   yes,  oh,  blow  me!  yes  — 

It's  the  power  o'  the  human  eye ! 

"We'd  left  New  York  en  route  for  Cork 

A  day  and  a  half  to  sea, 
When  Jeremy  Tait,  our  fourteenth  mate, 

He  fastened  his  eyes  on  me. 
134 


The  Powerful  Eyes  o'  Jeremy  Tait 

"And  wizzle  me  hook!   't  was  a  powerful  look 
That  flashed  from  them  eyes  o'  his; 

I  was  terrified  from  heart  to  hide 
And  chilled  to  me  bones  and  friz. 


'  O  Jeremy  Tait,  O  fourteenth  mate,' 
I  hollers  with  looks  askance, 
135 


The  Powerful  Eyes  o'  Jeremy  Tait 

'Full  well  I  wist  ye 're  a  hypnotist, 
So  please  to  remove  yer  glance ! ' 

"But  Jeremy  laughed  as  he  turned  abaft 

His  glance  like  a  demon  rat, 
And  he  frightened  the  cook  with  his  piercin'  look, 

And  he  startled  the  captain's  cat. 

"Oh  me,  oh  my !   when  he  turned  his  eye 

On  our  very  efficient  crew, 
They  fell  like  dead  or  they  stood  like  lead 

And  stiff  as  a  poker  grew. 

"So  early  and  late  did  Jeremy  Tait 

That  talent  o'  his  employ, 
Which  caused  the  crew,  and  the  captain,  too, 

Some  moments  of  great  annoy. 

"For  we  loved  J.  Tait,  our  fourteenth  mate, 

As  an  officer  brave  and  true, 
But  we  quite  despised  bein'  hypnotized 

When  we  had  so  much  work  to  do. 

"So  we  grabbed  J.  Tait,  our  fourteenth  mate 

(His  eyes  bein'  turned  away), 
By  collar  and  sleeve,  and  we  gave  a  heave, 

And  chucked  him  into  the  spray. 

"His  eyes  they  flashed  as  in  he  splashed, 

But  this  glance  it  was  sent  too  late, 
For  close  to  our  bark  a  man-eatin'  shark 

Jumped  after  Jeremy  Tait. 
136 


The  Powerful  Eyes  o'  Jeremy  Tait 

"And  you  can  bet  he  would  ha'  been  et 
If  he  hadn't  have  did  as  he  done  — 


Straight  at  the  shark  an  optical  spark 
From  his  terrible  eye  he  spun. 
138 


The   Powerful   Eyes  o'  Jeremy  Tait 

"Then  the  shark  he  shook  at  Jeremy's  look 
And  he  quailed  at  Jeremy's  glance; 

Then  he  gave  a  sort  of  a  sharkery  snort 
And  fell  right  into  a  trance ! 

"Quite  mesmerized  and  hypnotized 

That  submarine  monster  lay; 
Meek  as  a  shrimp,  with  his  fins  all  limp, 

He  silently  floated  away. 

"So  we  all  of  us  cried  with  a  conscious  pride, 

'  Hurrah  for  Jeremy  Tait ! ' 
And  we  hove  a  line  down  into  the  brine 

And  reskied  him  from  his  fate. 

"And  the  captain  cries,  'We  kin  use  them  eyes 

To  mighty  good  purpose  soon. 
Men,  spread  the  sails  —  we're  a-goin'  for  whales, 

And  we  don't  need  nary  harpoon. 

"'For  when  we  hail  a  blubberous  whale 

A-spoutin'  the  waters  high, 
We'll  sail  up  bold  and  knock  'im  cold 

With  the  power  o'  Jeremy's  eye!' ' 

And  thus  on  his  log  the  old  sea-dog 

Sat  whittling  nautical  chips: 
"Oh,  powerf'ler  far  than  the  human  eye 

Is  the  truth  o'  the  human  lips ; 
But  rarest  of  all  is  the  pearls  that  fall 

From  a  truthful  mariner's  lips." 


A   LEAP-YEAR   PLUNGE 

OH  a  dreary  life  it  are 
To  be  a  fascinatin'  tar 

And  live  on  land  in  leap-year  when  the  willin'  maids  is 

wooin', 

And  it  drives  me  half  insane 
When  I  thinks  o'  Mary  Jane 

And  the  way  that  I  rejected  of  'er  billin'  and  'er  cooin'. 

'Twas  larb'rd  hard  a-lee 
That  she  made  'er  eyes  at  me 

(And  oh,  them  eyes  was  squinty  and  'er  hair  was  carrot  red, 
And  'er  chin  was  rather  double, 
But  'er  nose  was  built  fer  trouble, 

Which  same  I  often  noticed  and  which  same  I  often  said). 

And  when  she  looked  at  me, 
I  was  timid  as  could  be, 

Fer  plainly  she  revealed  'er  matrimonial  intent, 
And  when  I  heard  'er  feet 
Still  pursuin'  down  the  street 

I  yelled,  "Policeman,  please  protect  a  lone,  unmarried 
gent!" 

"Oh  won't  ye  marry  me?" 

One  day  she  says,  says  she. 

140 


A  Leap-Year  Plunge 

"Oh  that  I  reelly  couldn't  do,"  I  answers  'er  protesting 
''Because,  ye  see,  yer  face, 
Though  perfect  in  its  place, 

Ain't  what  the  world  calls  '  beautiful,'  but  rather  '  inter- 
estinV" 

"But  say  not  so,"  says  she, 
"Fer  I'm  goin'  to  marry  ye." 

I  took  the  boat  fer  Denmark.     She  was  waitin'  when  I 

got  there. 

Then  I  struck  through  Russia  inland, 
Went  to  Poland,  then  to  Finland, 

But  almost  every  station  Mary  Jane  serenely  sot  there. 

Next  I  jumped  an  Ocean  liner 
And  took  a  trip  to  Chinar, 

But  useless  was  me  journey —  Mary  Jane  was  on  the  dock. 
And  when  I  skipped  to  Spain, 
Lo !   there  sot  me  Mary  Jane 

Still  smilin'  'er  seraphic  smile  —  enough  to  stop  a  clock. 

But  when  I  struck  Gibraltar 
Then  she  led  me  to  the  altar. 

Me  funds  was  quite  exhausted,  but  me  bride  was  fresh 

and  joshin'. 

So  we're  livin',  her  and  me, 
In  a  cottage  by  the  sea, 

Quite  comf 'table  and  happy  —  Mary  Jane  she  takes  in 
washin'. 


141 


NILE-ISM 

'TwAS  morning  on  the  river  Nile 

Along  the  lotos  meres 
And  the  frugal  mother  crocodile 

Was  shedding  timely  tears; 
An  Ibis  bird  her  meanings  hears 

And  shyly  bit  his  nails, 
But  the  merry  baby  crocodiles 

Sat  playing  with  their  tails. 

"Our  summer  homes  are  catacombs," 

Repined  the  crocodile, 
"Old  Egypt's  pride  is  mummified, 

And  sadly  flows  the  Nile. 
And  tell  me,  please,  can  Rameses 

E'er  reign  again?"  she  said, 
But  the  Ibis  kind  cried,  "Never  mind- 

He's  been  a  long  time  dead." 

"'Midst  statues  stiff  and  hieroglyph 

Where  buzzed  the  sacred  scarab, 
Where  Cleopat  in  state  once  sat 

Now  squats  the  greasy  Arab. 
The  jackal  rooms  in  Cheops's  tombs  — 

I  hope  you  catch  my  point?  " 
"Oh  yes  indeed  i  "   the  bird  agreed, 

"The  times  are  out  of  joint." 
142 


Nile-ism 

"The  sacred  reed  has  gone  to  seed  — 

O  last,  O  bitter  cup !  " 
(In  this  brief  pause  she  oped  her  jaws 

And  chewed  the  Ibis  up.) 
"O  bitter  end,  most  cherished  friend!" 

She  cried  with  broken  wails, 
But  the  merry  little  crocodiles 

Sat  playing  with  their  tails. 


'43 


SCIENCE  FOR  THE  YOUNG 

THOUGHTFUL  little  Willie  Frazer 
Carved  his  name  with  father's  razor; 
Father,  unaware  of  trouble, 
Used  the  blade  to  shave  his  stubble. 
Father  cut  himself  severely, 
Which  pleased  little  Willie  dearly  — 
"I  have  fixed  my  father's  razor 
So  it  cuts!"   said  Willie  Frazer. 

Mamie  often  wondered  why 
Acids  trouble  alkali  — 
Mamie,  in  a  manner  placid, 
Fed  the  cat  boracic  acid, 
Whereupon  the  cat  grew  frantic, 
Executing  many  an  antic, 
"Ah '."cried  Mamie,  overjoyed, 
"Pussy  is  an  alkaloid  !  " 

Arthur  with  a  lighted  taper 
Touched  the  fire  to  grandpa's  paper. 
Grandpa  leaped  a  foot  or  higher, 
Dropped  the  sheet  and  shouted  "Fire!" 
Arthur,  wrapped  in  contemplation, 
Viewed  the  scene  of  conflagration. 
"This,"  he  said,  "confirms  my  notion  — 

Heat  creates  both  light  and  motion." 
144 


Science  for  the  Young 

Wee,  experimental  Nina 
Dropped  her  mother's  Dresden  china 
From  a  seventh-story  casement, 
Smashing,  crashing  to  the  basement. 
Nina,  somewhat  apprehensive, 
Said:   "This  china  is  expensive, 
Yet  it  proves  by  demonstration 
Newton's  law  of  gravitation." 


145 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHTMARE 

O  THE  Caliph-rum-Boodle,  of  Swilliking  Swoo, 

Lived  a  quiet  and  peaceable  life, 

For  he  vowed  that  each  morning  these  things  he  would  do : 
He'd  read  from  the  Koran  a  chapter  or  two, 

Then  murder  his  favorite  wife. 

So,  being  a  tidy,  methodical  soul, 

He  made  early  rising  his  pride, 
When,  sipping  his  coffee  and  nibbling  a  roll 
And  reading  a  text  from  his  favorite  scroll, 

He'd  summon  his  favorite  bride. 

"Come  hither,  come  hither,  my  favorite  wife, 

And  fear  not  the  words  that  I  say, 
But  kindly  deliver  my  favorite  knife"  — 
But  the  favorite  wife  answered,  "Not  on  your  life'" 

(For  that  was, her  favorite  way.) 

"But  why  dost  thou  cavil,  my  soul's  own  delight, 
When  my  first  morning's  task  I  would  do?" 

"I  claim,"  she  would  answer,  "my  favorite  right; 

To  spin,  in  the  mode  of  Arabian  Night, 
Your  favorite  story  to  you." 

"Make  haste!"    he  would  answer,  "Remember  it's  Mon- 
day." 
Whereat  the  fair  lady  began, 

"There  once  was  a  Princess  of  Salamagundi 

146 


An  Arabian   Nightmare 

Named  Kali  Alisha  ben  Zoozu  el  Sundi, 
Her  father  the  King  of  Gazan. 

"The  Princess  had  suitors  and  lovers  a  score, 

But  none  she  could  easily  pick  — '' 
(Here  the  lady  her  story  related  no  more 
For  the  Caliph  of  Swoo  was  beginning  to  snore  - 

For  that  was  his  favorite  trick.) 

And  when  from  his  slumbers  at  length  he  arose, 

Untroubled  his  peaceable  brow, 
As  he  asked  the  chief  eunuch  to  powder  his  nose, 
And  it  was  delightfully  safe  to  suppose 

That  he  had  forgotten  his  vow. 

For,  being  the  kindest  and  gentlest  of  men, 

Through  long  years  of  plenty  ruled  he, 
And  the  people  of  Swoo  mourned  unceasingly  when 
He  died  at  the  age  of  one  hundred  and  ten, 
And  his  wife  at  one  hundred  and  three. 


147 


ADOLPHUS  AND   THE  LION 

ADOLPHUS  was  a  thoughtful  child 
Who  acted  as  he  should, 

Self-sacrificing,  rneek,  and  mild, 
And  full  of  impulse  good. 


One  day  when  he  was  eating  pie 

Beneath  the  forest  tree 
148 


Adolphus  and  the  Lion 

A  timid  Lion  passing  by 
The  gentle  child  did  see. 

"Adolphus,  I  am  hungeree 

And  rather  faint  am  I. 
Pray  be  so  good  as  give  to  me 

A  morsel  of  your  pie." 

"I'm  very  glad  you  told  me  so," 
Adolphus  said,  well  pleased. 

'"Twill  be  reward  enough  to  know 
Your  appetite's  appeased." 

The  Lion  ate  Adolphus'  pie 

With  all  politeness  due, 
Then  pausing  with  a  grateful  sigh 

He  ate  Adolphus  too. 

Then  rising  with  a  thankful  roar 
He  sauntered  down  the  plain  — 

A  stronger,  better  Lion  for 
Adolphus'  deed  humane. 

Herein  their  lies  a  moral  sweet 
Which  all  who  read  may  find: 

Be  generous  to  those  you  meet  — 
To  animals  be  kind. 


149 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SPOOKY  SHIP 

A  HAUNTED  ship  was  the  Admiral  Pipp 

Of  the  most  rip-roarin'-est  sort, 
And  me  tale  is  true  as  the  day  is  long, 

And  true  as  the  night  is  short. 

Capting  Dave  was  her  skipper  brave, 

A  ruffy  old,  bluffy  old  tar 
Who  swigged  his  gin  from  a  biscuit  tin, 

For  a  curious  cove  he  war. 

But  after  dark  on  that  haunted  bark 
Ye  could  hear  'em  gibber  and  squeak, 

Ye  could  hear  'em  moan,  ye  could  hear  'em  groan, 
From  the  keel  to  the  topmost  peak. 

And  one  was  the  ha'ant  of  a  bos'n  gaunt, 

And  one  of  a  sailor  stout 
And  they'd  dance  all  night  by  the  for'ard  light 

And  stand  on  ther  heads  and  shout. 

So  one  fine  night  the  bos'n  white 

His  gobulun  whistle  blew 
And,  blow  me  blow !   from  the  watch  below 

He  summoned  a  ghostly  crew ! 

And  they  started  to  dance  and  they  started  to  prance 
All  over  that  ha'anted  gig 


The  Song  of  the  Spooky  Ship 

With  a  horrid  sound  of  "All  hands  round!" 
To  a  sort  of  a  cake-walk  jig. 

Now  Capting  Dave,  (he  sure  was  brave !) 

He  watched  'em  foolin'  awhile, 
Then  he  says  to  me,  "I've  a  great  idee 

To  handle  them  spooks  in  style." 

So  to  them  he  said,  "Because  ye're  dead 

Ye  haven't  no  claim  to  shirk; 
If  ye're  goin'  to  lark  on  this  ha'anted  bark, 

Ye've  got  to  git  in  and  work." 

So  he  put  a  spook  to  helpin'  the  cook 
And  he  put  a  spook  at  the  wheel 

And  other  shades  at  various  trades 
He  set  with  a  will  of  steel. 

And  ghostly  tars  at  the  masts  and  spars 

He  set  to  reefin'  the  sail, 
While  one  poor  spec'  was  a-swabbin'  the  deck 

With  a  sort  of  a  spectral  wail. 

So  three  days  long  that  wraithy  throng 
Worked  on  —  'twas  a  right  good  joke 

And  us  o'  the  crew  with  nothin'  to  do 
But  lay  in  our  bunks  and  smoke. 

But  the  third  dark  night  them  mariners  white 
They  spoke  to  the  capting  thus:  — 

"WVre  a-goin'  to  skip  this  turribul  ship 
Fer  the  hours  is  too  long  fer  us." 


The  Song  of  the  Spooky  Ship 

So  presto,  whist !  straight  into  the  mist 

Faded  that  graveyard  corps; 
Jest  vanished  away,  and  up  to  this  day 

They've  never  been  heard  of  more. 

"Fer  it's  surely  best  that  a  ghost  should  rest," 

As  I  says  to  the  capting's  clerk, 
"Sperrits  and  spooks  is  great  in  books, 

But  a  little  mite  shy  o'  work." 


152 


GOOD   GUNNERY 

A-SMOKING  a  pipe  of  tobacky 

On  a  water-logged  wreck  of  a  spar, 
I  met  an  itinerant  Jacky, 

A  wondering,  pondering  tar 
Who  said:   "Ye'd  be  blowed,  if  ye  guessed,  if  ye  knowed, 

What  a  wonderful  person  I  are. 

"When  I  went  to  work  for  the  navy, 

Ther'  wasn't  none  better  nor  me. 
I  sent  forty  vessels  to  Davy, 

And  scart  all  the  fleets  from  the  sea, 
The  trick  bein'  done  with  a  forty-pound  gun 

On  the  battleship  Lily  McGee. 

"The  capting  was  proud  o'  me  prowess, 

And  I  wa'n't  ashamed  o'  me  skill, 
Fer  some  tricks  I  done  I  allow  is 

The  talk  o'  the  water-front  still  — 
Such  as  shootin'  the  eye  from  a  bluebottle  fly 

Miles  away  on  a  kingfisher's  bill. 

"And  oncet  when  a  battle  was  ragin', 

(We  fought  about  three  times  a  day), 
The  capting  in  accents  engagin' 

Said,  'Willum,'  —  that's  me,  —  'step  this  way! 
Be  so  good  as  to  snipe  out  the  admiral's  pipe 

On  the  bridge  of  his  flagship  Bombay' 


Good  Gunnery 

"So  I  answered,  'Aye,  aye!'   fresh  and  breezy, 
Then  aimed  forty  pound  o'  cold  lead, 

Which  whizzed  by  the  admiral  easy, 
And  sniped  out  'is  pipe  as  it  sped ; 

But  I'm  loath  to  repeat  that  the  shot  was  too  neat, 

For  it  bio  wed  off  the  admiral's  head. 

"Then  the  capting  took  paper  and  wrote  it, 
'Soorender — acknarlidge  defeat.' 

This  I  put  in  me  gun,  and  I  shot  it 
Straight  into  the  enemy's  fleet  — 

I  landed  that  note  in  the  commodore's  boat, 
Where  it  lay  at  the  commodore's  feet. 

"So  the  enemy,  pale  with  emotion, 
Immejut  the'r  colors  they  lowered, 

'For,'  they  says,  'we've  the  greatest  devotion 
To  war;   but  we  couldn't  afford 

To  fall  in  the  grip  of  a  murderous  ship 
With  Willum  the  Gunner  aboard.' 

"Then  the  capting  he  wished  to  promote  me, 

But,  'No,'  I  replies,  with  a  sob; 
'Ambition  would  only  denote  me 

A  selfish,  ongenerous  snob.' 
And  this,  as  you  see,  is  the  reason  I  be 

A-loafin'  here  out  of  a  job." 


154 


TRADE  WINDS 

I  STOOD  one  day  by  the  breezy  bay 
A-watchin'  the  ships  go  by, 
When  a  tired  tar  said  with  a  shake  of  his  head : 
"I  wisht  I  could  tell  a  lie ! 

"I've  saw  some  sights  as  would  jigger  yer  lights, 
And  they've  jiggered  me  own  in  sooth, 
But  I  ain't  wuth  a  darn  at  a-spinnin'  a  yarn 
What  wanders  away  from  the  truth. 

"We  was  out  on  the  gig,  the  Riggajig, 
Jest  a  mile  and  a  half  to  sea, 
When  Capting  Snook,  with  a  troubled  look, 
He  came  and  he  says  to  me :  — 

"  '  O  Bos'n  Smith,  make  haste  forthwith 
And  hemstitch  the  for'ard  sail; 
Accordeon  pleat  the  dory  sheet, 
For  there's  going  to  be  a  gale.' 

"I  straightway  did  as  the  capting  bid  — 

No  sooner  the  job  was  through 

Than  the  North  wind  whoof !  bounced  over  the  roof 

And  murderin'  lights  she  blew ! 

"She  blew  the  tars  right  off  o'  the  spars, 
And  the  spars  right  off  o'  the  mast, 


Trade  Winds 

And  sails  and  pails  and  anchors  and  nails 
Flew  by  on  the  wings  o'  the  blast. 

"Then  the  galley  shook  as  she  blew  our  cook 
Straight  out  o'  the  porthole  glim, 
While  pots  and  pans  and  kettles  and  cans 
Went  clatterin'  after  him. 

"She  blew  the  fire  from  our  gallant  stove 
And  the  coal  from  our  gallant  bin, 
Then  she  whistled  apace  past  the  capting's  face 
And  blew  the  beard  off  his  chin ! 

"  '  O  wizzle  me  dead  !'  the  capting  said 
(And  the  words  blew  out  of  his  mouth), 
'We're  lost,  I  fear,  if  the  wind  don't  veer 
And  blow  awhile  from  the  South.' 

"And,  wizzle  me  dead !   no  sooner  he'd  said 

Them  word's  that  blew  from  his  mouth 

Than  the  wind  switched  round  with  a  hurricane  sound 

And  blew  straight  in  from  the  South. 

"And  we  opened  our  eyes  with  a  wild  surprise, 
And  never  a  word  to  say  — 
For  in  changin'  her  tack  the  wind  blew  back 
The  things  that  she'd  blew  away ! 

"She  blew  the  tars  back  onto  the  spars, 
And  the  spars  back  onto  the  mast; 
Back  flew  the  pails  and  the  sails  and  the  nails 
Which  into  the  ship  stuck  fast. 
156 


Trade  Winds 

"And  'fore  we  could  look  she  blew  the  cook 
Straight  into  the  galley  coop; 
Back  dropped  the  pans  and  the  kettles  and  cans 
Without  even  spillin'  the  soup. 

"She  blew  the  fire  back  into  the  stove 
Where  it  burned  in  its  proper  place  — 
And  we  all  of  us  cheered  as  she  blew  the  beard 
Back  onto  the  capting's  face ! 


"There's  more  o'  me  tale," 

Said  the  sailor  hale, 

"As  would  jigger  yer  lights  in  sooth; 

But  I  ain't  wuth  a  darn 

At  a-spinnin'  a  yarn 
What  wanders  away  from  the  truth." 


GODS   AND   LITTLE   FISHES 


WHO'S  ZOO   IN  AMERICA 

WILLIAM  ALSO-RAN-DOLPH  HEARST 

WILLIE  runs  a  supplement  which  always  beats  the  news ; 
Willie  runs  for  President,  with  nothing  much  to  lose  — 


Willie's  always  running,  whether  by  request  or  not. 
Whenever  there's  a  vacancy,  it's  Willie-on-the-Spot. 

Frisky  Willie,  risky  Willie,  feverish  for  speed, 

Prints  a  rapid  journal,  so  that  he  who  runs  may  read. 
M  161 


William  Also-ran-dolph   Hearst 

Willie  runs  for  Governor  quite  regular  of  late, 
Willie  runs  the  Government  (or  tries  at  any  rate). 
Willie  looks  on  Politics  with  serious  intent, 
As  a  sort  of  annex  to  his  Comic  Supplement. 

Willing  Willie,  wanton  Willie,  can  he,  will  he  quit  ? 
Willie's  always  playing  tag  —  and  yet  he's  never  It  I 

Willie  ran  for  Mayor  once,  but  when  he  realized 
That  he  was  defeated,  he  was  not  at  all  surprised. 
In  this  land,  which  (Willie  says)  by  grafters  is  accursed, 
Almost  everybody  has  defeated  Willie  Hearst. 

Dreaming  Willie,  scheming  Willie,  hitting  of  the  pipe; 
He's  one  type  0}  journalist  —  his  Journal's  mostly  type. 

When  he  saw  that  Puddles  were  the  topics  of  the  hour 
Willie  got  a  Muck-Rake  of  a  hundred-donkey  power, 
Started  up  a  geyser,  shrilly  shrieking  all  the  time: 
"Don't  you  touch  my  mud  !  I've  got  a  scoop  on  this  here 
slime ! " 

Frantic  Willie,  antic  Willie,  always  on  the  jump, 

Willie  found  the  Muck-Rake  slow,  and  so  he  bought  a  pump. 

Brimstone  is  to  Willie  quite  the  mildest  of  emulsions  — 
Dowie  multiplied  by  fits  and  Lawson  in  convulsions; 
Any  great  calamity  that  comes  the  world  to  curse, 
Read  it  in  the  "Journal "  —  and  you'll  find  that  it  is  worse. 

Bumptious  Willie,  gumptious  Willie,  running  for  a  prize, 
Keeps  his  circulation  brisk  by  constant  exercise. 


162 


Thomas   Fortune   Ryan 


THOMAS   FORTUNE   RYAN 

THIS  splendid  type  of  citizen, 
More  noble-browed  than  Dion, 

This  beau-ideal  of  business  men 
Is  Thomas  Fortune  Ryan. — 


Philanthropist,  half  socialistic, 
Democrat,  money-lender,  mystic. 

Whene'er  he  longs  to  take  a  street 
He  needs  no  manifesto, 
163 


Thomas   Fortune   Ryan 

But  simply  forms  a  merger  neat 

And  all  is  over —  presto  I  — 
Quick  confiscation,  as  he  plans  it, 
Is  briefly  known  as  "rapid  transit." 

Although  Insurance  Idols  fled 
Before  the  Great  Improvement, 

And  he,  a  missionary,  led 

The  new  Religious  Movement, 

Still,  in  the  Subway,  his  vocation 

Is  underground  manipulation. 

On  politics  he  also  dotes, 

Thus  oft  forestalling  losses; 
He's  much  too  proud  to  purchase  votes, 

And  so  he  buys  the  Bosses. 
Though  Parties  change  like  blossoms  vernal, 
Tom  Ryan  is  the  Boss  Eternal. 

He  deals  in  railroads,  gaslight,  coals, 

Insurance,  legislatures, 
Statesmen,  tobacco,  human  souls, 

Churches  and  lower  natures; 
And  half  the  grafts  that  work  to  harm  us 
Are  just  Consolidated  Thomas. 

If  market  rates  on  men  prevail, 

There's  little  need  of  crying; 
So  long  as  Cities  are  for  sale 

There's  profit  in  the  buying  — 
Tom  owns  New  York,  and  on  this  basis 
"Municipal  Ownership"  he  praises. 
164 


Chauncey  M.  Depew 


CHAUNCEY   M.   DEPEW 


WHEN  after-dinner  speeches  shrink  to  fewness 
And  jokes  are  mainly  laughed  at  for  their  newness, 
What  will  become  of  Chauncey  M.  Depewness? 
Alas,  poor  Yorick,  how  his  gags  do  pall ! 


Since  some  obscure,  investigating  vandal 
Into  the  dark  Insurance  poked  a  candle, 
The  Josh  falls  flat,  the  game's  not  worth  the  Scandal, 
And  Miller's  Jest  Book  hangs  upon  the  wall. 
165 


Chauncey   M.  Depew 

Poor  Yorick  !    Ah,  I  knew  him  well,  Horatio ; 

More  fudge  than  fun,  more  side-chop  than  mustachio, 

An  anecdote  that  savored  of  Boccaccio, 

An  epigram  that  savored  of  the  Ark; 
Who,  clad  in  evening  waistcoats  smoothly  ventral, 
Enthused  the  Nation's  brain  and  heart  and  entrail, 
Pro  P 'atria ,  Pro  Tern.,  Pro  New  York  Central 

(He  jests  at  Whales  who  never  saw  a  Shark !) 

Is  this  the  head  that  towered  among  the  friskers, 
The  face  that  smiled  between  those  weeping  whiskers, 
Discoursing  antique  puns  to  cheer  the  riskers 

Who  put  their  trust  in  Mr.  Brazen  Hyde? 
Ah,  classic  cheek  and  chin !   how  well  you  jabbered, 
Your  cutlass  seldom  sleeping  in  its  scabbard  — 
Jests  that  were  ever  idle,  yet  how  labored ! 

While  thousands  spellbound  sat — or  ossified. 

The  gayest  dog  of  all  Financial  Leeches, 

When  hungry  men  applied  to  him  with  screeches 

For  bread,  he  gave  them  after-dinner  speeches  — 

Cold  chestnuts,  when  they  asked  a  bill  of  fare. 
By  him  were  want  and  hunger  ne'er  neglected, 
And  paupers  by  insurance  thefts  affected 
In  winter  flocked  to  him  to  be  protected; 

They  asked  for  fuel,  he  answered  with  hot  air. 

But  now  his  mummied  mots  we  may  entomb,  or 

Bury  in  landslides  of  insurance  rumor, 

What  sexton,  pray,  would  dare  exhume  his  Humor 

And  show  its  staleness  to  the  cold,  gray  dawn? 
1 66 


Senator  Nelson  W.  Oildrich 

Though  dead  men  can't  protest,  howe'er  you  thwart  'em 
And  neither  grief  nor  laughter  can  contort  'em, 
Just  try  Depew's  post-prandial  post-mortem 

Upon  the  dead  —  and  watch  the  graveyards  yawn ! 


SENATOR  NELSON  W.  OILDRICH 

WITHIN  the  Central  Stock  Exchange 
(The  ''Senate"  called  officially) 

Millionnaire  Oildrich  doth  arrange 
The  brokerage  judicially. 

'Tis  he  who  bids  the  Senate  hinge 
The  knee  or  bend  the  back  awhile, 

Or  who  shall  dance  or  who  shall  cringe 
Or  who  shall  hold  the  sack  awhile. 

Millionnaire  Clarke  and  Broker  Platt 
And  Perkins  and  Depew,  of  course, 

To  him  discreetly  doff  the  hat 
As  other  magnates  do,  of  course. 

The  party  feudists  cease  to  broil 

In  this  refined  community; 
The  Sugar  mingles  with  the  Oil, 

And  Oildrich  calls  it  "unity." 

Here  henchmen  flock  from  many  a  State 

Their  homage  to  attach  to  him 
With  Standard  Oil  so  saturate 

You  dare  not  touch  a  match  to  him. 
167 


Senator  Nelson  W.  Oildrich 

The  Nation's  progress  shall  not  lag 
While  Oildrich  loves  and  hallows  it; 

He  says  the  Standard's  like  the  flag  — 
The  Constitution  follows  it. 


When  Justice  to  the  Senate  comes 
She's  kicked  from  clerk  to  Senator, 

From  lobbies  to  committee-rooms  — 
Then  sandbagged  by  the  Janitor. 

But  all  at  once  on  bended  knee 

The  Senators  begin  to  rest 
When  sleek  old  Captain  Industry 

Drills  in  with  Private  Interest. 
168 


Charles  Warren  Fairbanks 

For  Oildrich  says:   "In  God  We  Trusts 

Are  sacredly  invincible  — 
And  Heaven  help  the  man  who  thrusts 

His  nose  into  our  principle." 

And  so  he  stands  admitted,  salaamed  — 
How  pleasant,  as  it  were,  to  see 

The  Public  very  nicely  damned 
Through  Senatorial  Courtesy! 

CHARLES  WARREN  FAIRBANKS 

To  persons  not  too  cynical 

Who  worship  The  Sublime, 
And  dote  on  peak  and  pinnacle, 

I  recommend  this  rhyme, 
To  those  who  care  for  upper  air 

And  do  not  mind  a  climb. 

Ye  tourists  who  prefer  to  see 

How  arctic  mountains  fare, 
By  senatorial  courtesy, 

Behold  Mt.  Fairbanks  there, 
Eternal  friz,  towering  from  his 

Ice-Presidential  chair ! 

Mt.  Bryan,  quite  volcanical, 

Pours  lava  fore  and  aft, 
And  hot  air  most  satanical 

He  frequently  doth  waft; 
But  Boreas  shrieks  when  Fairbanks  speaks 

And  people  hate  a  draft. 
169 


Charles  Warren   Fairbanks 

The  Senate  loves  him  tenderly 
When  leavening  the  lump; 

For  though  proportioned  slenderly 
His  private  purse  is  plump, 

And  clear  and  chill  his  passions  rill 
Like  water  from  the  pump. 


It's  Theodore's  combativeness 
Which  weds  him  to  his  job; 
It's  Fairbanks'  un-get-at-iveness 

Which  fends  him  from  the  mob  — 
170 


Governor  Samuel   Whangdoodle  Pennypacker 

How  hopeless  were  the  barrier 
Of  snows  around  the  Snob ! 

But  ethics  Senatorial 

Might  easily  putresce, 
Through  certain  immemorial 

"Committee  business," 
Were't  not  a  fact  that  Fairbanks'  tact 

Refrigerates  the  mess. 

Yet  sooner  would  fierce  Kublai  Khan 

From  gory  conquest  pause 
Than  Fairbanks,  the  Republican, 

Would  mar  his  Party's  laws. 
His  faith's  secure  —  in  fact,  I'm  sure 

He's  frozen  to  the  Cause. 

Like  Thought  in  palest  dimity, 

Lovely  and  high  of  soul, 
He  stands  in  chill  sublimity, 

Ambition's  sacred  goal, 
The  Ultimate  of  all  that's  great  — 

The  un-magnetic  Pole ! 


GOVERNOR  SAMUEL  WHANGDOODLE  PENNYPACKER 

LIKE  Noah  Webster  he  reclines 

Within  his  easy-chair, 
A-tapping  Wisdom's  sacred  mines 

And  culling  here  and  there; 
Yet  all  he  finds  of  perfect  minds 

Up  to  the  present  day 
171 


Governor  Samuel  Whangdoodle  Pennypacker 

Are  Moses,  Plato,  Socrates, 
Himself,  and  Matthew  Quay. 

He's  written  over  fifty  books  — 

And  some  are  nearly  good  — 
On  Railroad  Jobs,  Successful  Snobs, 

And  Human  Brotherhood; 


And  he  can  speak  in  French  and  Greek 

On  topics  of  the  day, 
Like  Moses,  Plato,  Socrates, 

Himself,  and  Matthew  Quay. 
172 


Governor  Samuel  Whangdoodle   Pennypacker 

Oh  Philadelphia's  Sabbath  calm 

Sits  on  his  holiness 
Until  by  chance  his  eyeballs  glance 

Across  the  Daily  Press  — 
Then  pale  before  his  grumblous  roar 

Reporters  flee  away, 
Who  took  in  vain  by  words  profane 

The  name  of  Him  and  Quay. 

Yet  soft  he  roareth  since  the  hour 

When  good  Saint  Graft  was  hurled 
By  anger  quick  upon  the  Kick 

That  Echoed  round  the  World, 
And  cautiously  he  goes  by  night, 

And  cautiously  by  day, 
For  fear  some  ripe  tomato  might 

Be  aimed  at  Him  or  Quay. 

But  when  again  the  heavens  smile 

And  public  wrath  is  spent; 
When  Philadelphia  sleeps  awhile, 

Corrupted  but  content; 
Then  sadly  Pennypacker  conies 

Forth  to  the  graveyard  gray 
And  lays  a  grateful  wreath  of  plums 

Upon  the  Tomb  of  Quay. 

"O  Master,"  'twixt  his  sobs  he  saith, 

"When  all  Cartoonists  die, 
When  Editors  all  gagged  to  death 

'Neath  broken  presses  lie, 
173 


Grover  Cleveland 

Four  noble  statues  I'll  erect 
With  public  funds  to  pay: 

The  Gilded  Hog,  the  Yellow  Dog. 
Myself,  and  Matthew  Quay ! " 

GROVER  CLEVELAND 

WITH  madness  of  the  Party's  tongue 
And  Democratic  skies  o'erhung 
The  Sage  of  Princeton  walks  among 

The  clover. 
A  votary  of  Pan  is  he, 
Close  to  the  flowers;  yet  you  can  see 
There  lights  no  little  busy  Bee 

On  Grover. 

But  if,  beside  the  cabbage-stalk, 
You  linger  in  your  morning  walk, 
You'll  find  him  nothing  loth  to  talk 

It  over, 

Still  wisely  willing  to  repeat 
His  phrases  ponderously  neat  — 
In  fact  there's  still  a  deal  of  meat 

To  Grover. 

Unlike  the  actress  grown  blase", 
Forever  on  her  "farewell  play," 
He  means  it  when  he  says  his  day 

Is  over. 

He  has  no  whim  to  roguishly 
Flirt  with  the  jade  Publicity  — 
There's  not  a  trace  of  coquetry 

In  Grover. 


Grover  Cleveland 

Yet  he  can  point  a  Decalogue 

To  lead  the  Faithful  from  the  bog; 

He  still  can  call  the  Yellow  Dog, 

"Come  Rover!" 

Though  Age  to  Greatness  oft  is  rude 
"Innocuous  desuetude" 
Is  not  quite  able  to  include 

Our  Grover. 


175 


ANOTHER  PEACE  CONFERENCE 

"COME  here,  come  here,  football  play-ers, 

Ye  coaches  wild  and  tough ! 
Why  do  ye  slug  and  gouge  and  chug 

And  raise  a  house  so  rough?" 
So  up  spake  bluff  King  Theodore 

In  something  more  than  bluff. 


The  football  coaches  up  have  came 

And  stood  them  in  a  row 
With  blushing  cheek,  and  naught  they  speak 

Except  to  mutter  low, 
176 


Another  Peace  Conference 

"  O  mighty  one,  the  things  we  done 
We  done  in  wrath,  we  know ! " 

Then  loud  doth  roar  King  Theodore 

A-kicking  up  his  feet, 
"To  snarl  and  fight  and  gouge  and  bite, 

Is  neither  meet  nor  meat  — 
To  strew  the  field  with  vertebrae, 

Is  this  an  act  discreet? 

"Ye  call  it  feetball  that  ye  play, 

Yet  this  hath  no  avail  — 
How  can  ye  play  the  ball  of  feet 

With  fist  and  tooth  and  nail?" 
(Thrice  triply  groan  the  dour  coach-es, 

Their  blushing  cheeks  grown  pale.) 

"'Tis  my  command:  ye  must  not  play 
With  teeth  and  nails  and  fists; 

In  evening  clo'es  and  varnished  shoes 
Go  ye  upon  the  lists  — 

Paste  not  the  foeman  in  the  eye, 
But  slap  him  on  the  wrists. 

"Let  football  never  be  so  rough 

As  soil  a  tie  of  lawn 
As  spoil  the  crease  upon  your  knees 

Or  smear  your  gloves  of  fawn  — 
Be  gentle,  or  I'll  wring  your  necks ! 

A  vaunt,  ye  mutts !     Be  gone ! ! " 

N  I77 


Another  Peace  Conference 

So  forth  they  fare,  and  Theodore 

Sitteth  his  throne  so  high, 
A  Colt's  revolver  in  his  boots, 

A  stab-knife  at  his  thigh, 
And  with  the  sheath  he  picks  his  teeth 

And  sigheth  a  kingly  sigh. 


178 


THE  BALLAD   OF   SAGAMORE  HILL 


IS  morning,  and  King  Theodore 

Upon  his  throne  sits  he 
As  blithely  as  a  King  can  sit 

Within  a  free  countree, 
And  now  he  thinks  of  submarines, 

And  now  of  peace  and  war. 
His  royal  robe  he  handeth  Loeb, 

Then  wireth  to  the  Czar:  — 


"Come  off.  come  off,  thou  Great  White 

Czar, 

Come  off  thy  horse  so  high ! 
Send  envoys  straight  and  arbitrate 

Thy  diplomatic  pie." 
Then  straightway  to  the  Mik-a-doo 

This  letter  he  doth  limn, 
"Come  off  thy  perch,  thou  Morning  Sun, 
And  do  the  same  as  him ! " 

Then  straightway  from  the  Rising  Sun 

Come  envoys  three  times  three, 
Komura  neat  and  Sato  sweet, 

(An  Irish  Japanee). 
179 


The  Ballad  of  Sagamore  Hill 

Small  men  are  they  with  domy  brains, 

And  in  their  fingers  gaunt 
A  list  of  seven  hundred  things 

They  positively  want. 

Then  straightway  from  St.  Petersburg 

Come  envoys  six  times  two, 
De  Witty  grand  and  Rosen  bland 

And  Nebotoff katoo — 
Volkyrieoffskygrandovitch  — 

(Here  see  the  author's  note, 
"The  balance  of  that  noble  name 

Came  on  another  boat.") 
'Twas  on  the  royal  yacht  Mayflower, 

They  met,  that  noble  crew. 
"De  Witty  grand,  shake  Sato's  hand  — 

Komura,  how-dee-do ! " 
While  forty  thousand  gun-salutes 

Concuss  on  Oyster  Bay. 
A  proud  man  is  King  Theodore, 

Upon  that  try  sting  day ! 

To  Portsmouth  town,  to  Portsmouth  town, 

The  sweating  envoys  puff, 
To  speak  of  tin  and  Saghalien 

And  eke  to  bluff  and  bluff  — 
But  Theodore  at  Oyster  Bay 

Doth  while  the  times  between 
By  taking  trips  and  dives  and  dips 

Within  his  submarine. 

For  many  a  day  the  Japanees 

Uphold  their  fingers  gaunt, 
180 


The  Ballad  of  Sagamore  Hill 

And  mention  seven  hundred  things 

They  positively  want  — 
For  many  a  day  the  Muscovites 

Down-plant  their  Russian  shoes, 
And  mention  seven  hundred  things 

They  positive  refuse. 

Till  haply  from  his  submarine 

King  Theodore  doth  peep 
And  stops  a  wireless  telegram 

That  buzzeth  o'er  the  deep: 
"O  Theodore,  O  goodly  King, 

The  envoys  call  our  bluff  — 
Despite  the  fuss  the  stubborn  Russ 

Disgorgeth  not  the  stuff." 

"Come  hither,  Mr.  Serge  de  Witt!" 

King  Theodore  doth  say, 
"Now  tell  me  quick  by  the  Big  Stick 

Why  dost  refuse  to  pay?" 
"Come  hither,  Baron  Kom-u-ra, 

And  sit  upon  my  lap  — 
Why  dost  thou  cuss  and  make  a  fuss 

Thou  naughty,  naughty  Jap?" 

To  Portsmouth  back,  to  Portsmouth  back, 

The  envoys  then  do  flee, 
And  each  is  sad  and  mild  and  meek 

As  an  envoy  ought  to  be, 
And  as  they  speak  of  Terms  of  Peace 

Politeness  doth  ensue  — 
Like  Prince  Alphonze  and  Duke  Gaston, 

'Tis  ever  "After  you  !" 
181 


The   Ballad  of  Sagamore  Hill 

So  soon  the  terms  of  Peace  are  signed 

And  put  upon  a  shelf, 
And  Theodore  doth  straightway  take 

Great  credit  to  himself  — 
The  bugles  call  and  roses  fall 

On  good  King  Theodore, 
As  round  the  Stick  the  kodaks  click 

Full  twelve  times  thirty-four. 

And  now  when  ancient  grandsires  sit- 
Within  the  evening  gray, 

And  oysters  frolic  noisilee 
All  over  Oyster  Bay, 

The  graybeard  tells  his  little  niece 
How  Theodore  did  trek 

To  drag  the  gentle  Bird  of  Peace 
To  Portsmouth  —  by  the  neck. 


182 


JULIUS   SEIZER 

Cast  of  Characters 
A  SHAKESPERIAN  TEAGEDY  WITH  AMERICAN  LINES 

JULIUS  SEIZES  ROOSEVELT. 

BAILYCUS. 

CHAUNCEY  M.  DEPEWCUS, 

ALDRICA, 

Senators. 
METELLIUS  SPOONER, 

TOMMIUS  PLATTUS, 

CASSIUS  CANNON.       ]    ^        .  .    ,  c  . 

\    Conspirators  against  beizer. 

BRUTUS  TILLMANIUS,  J 

HENRICUS  WATTERSONIUS,  a  Teacher  of  Rhetoric. 

WILLIO  HEARSTUS,  1     Tribunes< 

BRYANITIS,      J 

GROVER  CLEVELANDUS,  ' 


BILLIO  TATT, 


Imperial  Heavy  Dragoons. 


MAGOONUS, 
MARC  ANTHONY  LOEB,  a  Funeral  Director. 
FAIRBANKUS,  a  Refrigerator. 
Trusts,  Rebates,  Reformers,  Commoners,  etc. 

ACT   I 

(The  White  House.     Certain  Commoners  are  dancing  on  the 

"village  green.     Enter  HEARSTUS  and  BRYANITIS.) 
HEARST.  :  Hence !  home,  you  idle  creatures,  get  you  home : 
Is  this  a  comic  section  that  you  dance 


Julius  Seizer 


In  misfit  clothes  without  the  union  label 

To  indicate  your  jobs  ?    What  trade  art  thou  ? 

IST  COMM.  :   Please,  sir,  I  am  a  grafter. 

BRYAN.  :  Where  is  thy  rebate,  then,  and  railroad  pass  ? 
You,  sir,  what  trade  art  thou? 

20  COMM.  :  Truly,  sir,  before  I  became  a  lobbyist  I  was  a 
cobbler.  I  have  but  recently  traded  the  awl  for  the  haul. 
Later  I  exchanged  the  awl  for  the  oil  and  took  orders  from 
Uncle  John. 

BRYAN.  :   By  gum,  by  Styx,  bi-metallism,  man ! 
184 


Julius  Seizer 

You  call  yourself  a  Commoner —  O,  fudge ! 
Why  stand  you  here  with  fingers  manicured, 
Your  shirt-studs  flashing  phoney-looking  stones  ? 

IST  COMM.  :    Most  noble  sir,  we  linger  here  to  see  J. 
Seizer  Roosevelt  ride  the  elephant. 

HEARST.  :  You  blocks,  you  dubs,  you  Philadelphia  gas 
Whom  oft  in  idiotorials  I've  told 
To  vote  for  Me  and  Happy  Hooligan, 
The  Katzenjammer  Twins  and  Maud,  the  Mule, 
Why  have  ye  went  and  gone  and  done  this  thing  ? 

BRYAN.  :    Key  down,  Bill,  please  —  here  comes  our  Un- 
kular  Unk.     (Exeunt.) 

(Thunder  and  lightning  —  enter  BRUTUS  TILLMANIUS  and 
CASSIUS  CANNON.) 

CANN.  :   Say,  Brutus,  may  I  call  you  Brute,  for  short  ? 
Come,  drop  that  pitchfork  —  what's  the  matter,  Ben  ? 
Insulting  of  the  President  again  ? 

TILL.  :  O,  for  the  club  of  Hercules  to  crack 
That  haughty  Ted  in  his  vainglorious  teeth  ! 
Or  might  some  Titan  lend  me  his  Big  Stick —  (Applause 
without.} 

CANN.  :  What  means  this  shouting  ?    I  do  fear  the  people 
Choose  Teddy  for  their  king. 

TILL.  :  If  this  keeps  up  I 

must  revive  the  Minor  Morris  scandal. 
(Salvo    without,    "Nobody    Works    in    Panama."    Enter 
SEIZER    ROOSEVELT,    followed    by    MARC    ANTHONY 
LOEB,      GROVER      CLEVELANDUS,      BILLIO      TAFT, 
CHAUNCEY  M.  DEPEWCUS,  and  other  Senators.) 
But,  look  you,  Cassius, 
The  angry  Seizer  seems  to  show  his  grin ! 


Julius  Seizer 

SEIZER  :  Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are  fat  (point- 
ing to  TAFT), 

Sleek-headed  men  and  such  as  sleep  o'  nights. 
Yond  Cannon  hath  a  lean  and  hungry  look : 
He  works  too  hard ;  such  men  are  dangerous. 

LOEB  :   Keep  cool,  Imperial  Seizer  —  he's  quite  tame. 
Look  how  his  toga  bags  across  the  knees ; 
Behold  !  the  bunch  of  broomstraws  on  his  chin 
Proclaims  his  simple,  cornfed  origin. 

SEIZ. :   Cornfed,  perhaps;  but  simple,  I  don't  think ! 
Come,  Conscript  Fathers,  join  me  in  a  drink. 

DEPEWCUS:  Here  is  a  joke  I've  often  used  before: 
He  drinks  hot  Scotch  who  drinks  with  Theodore.     (Ap- 
plause.) 

(Senators  stampede  after   SEIZER,   leaving  WATTERSONIUS 
and  TILLMANIUS  together.     Thunder  and  lightning.) 

WATT.:   Gad,  seh!  that  Seizer  seizes  everything  — 
Canals,  the  Constitution,  treaty-rights  — 

TILL.:  Dog-pasted,  gorgon-headed  Grand  Mogul, 
Spectacled  chum  of  Booker  Washington, 
Gish-whanged,  gr-r-r-r-oo,  wind-strenuous  bow-wow ! ! 

WATT.  :   Gad,  seh  !  those  expletives  outmatch  my  own  — 
I'll  put  'em  in  the  Courier -Journal. 

TILL.  :  Nit ! 

Those  copyrighted  cuss-words  shall  be  used 
To-morrow  in  my  speech  before  the  Senate. 
(Enter  CASSIUS  CANNON  with  BAILYCUS.    Sneaky  music.) 

WATT.  :  Hist,  friend  !  I  think  I  hear 
The  soft  stand-patter  of  Jo  Cannon's  feet. 
How  now,  Republican !    Why  limpst  thou  so  ? 

CANN.  :  These  shoes,  the  gift  of  my  constituents 
186 


Julius  Seizer 

In  South  Carolina,  pinch  across  the  instep. 
This  shirt  (a  Christmas  present)  doesn't  wash 
So  very  well.     'Tis  shrunk  around  the  armholes. 

TILL.  :  Thou  shouldst  not  look  a  gift-shirt  in  the  mouth. 

CANN.  :  Now  to  our  plot,  which  is  politically 
To  stab  Imperial  Seizer  in  the  neck. 
Let's  carve  him  as  a  dish  fit  for  the  gods. 
I  hate  a  messy  job.     Let's  leave  him  looking 
Quite  neat  and  statesmanlike,  and  not  as  if 
He'd  just  been  chewed  by  Colorado  wildcats. 

BAILY.  :  Aha,  say !  let's  gag 
His  Royal  Teds 
E'en  as  we  gagged  his  San  Domingo  treaty ! 

CANN.  :   E'en  as  the  Senate  strangles  any  law 
Not  paid  for  by  the  Trusts. 

TILL.  :   Jigger !   here  comes  a  cop  !     (They  disperse.) 

ACT  II 

(Executive  offices,  While  House.  Enter  SEIZER,  followed  by 
BAILYCUS,  ELDRICA,  CHAUNCEY  DEPEWCUS,  CANNON, 
TILLMANIUS,  WATTERSONIUS,  HEARSTUS,  BRYANITIS, 
etc.) 

SEIZER  :  Now  to  our  muttons  —  or,  to  be  exact, 
The  Beef  Trust. 

BAIL.  :  O  Imperial  Teds,  permit 

Me  to  present  this  bill  —  a  bill  to  regulate 
The  sale  of  gooseberries  in  Madagascar. 
(Enter  REPORTER.) 

REP.  :  Where  is  my  boss,  great  Hearstus  ? 
HEARST.  :  Here  I  am. 

Please  send  the  news  to  all  my  papers  quick, 

188 


Julius  Seizer 

And  say  that  Seizer  has  been  (almost)  killed. 

REP.  :   But  Seizer  hath  not  yet  been  (almost)  killed. 

HEARST.  :  You  inexperienced  cub  !  say,  don't  you  know 
That  Hearstus'  papers  always  get  the  news 
Four  hours  before  it  happens  ?  (Exit  REPORTER.) 

SEIZER  :  Ah,  dee-lighted  ! 

(Enter  TAFT,  disguised  as  Chinese  laundryman.) 

TAFT  :  Founder  of  six  republics,  hail,  all  hail ! 
Before  our  boycott  followers  from  Shanghai 
I  would  present  the  Chinese  Laundry  Bill. 


CANN.  :  A  bill  to  raise  the  tariff  on  fried  eggs.     (Presents 

paper.) 
TILL.:  A  bill  to  dam  the  Panama  Canal.  (Presents 

paper.) 
SEIZ.  :  Hold  on,  sweet  statesmen ;  since  ye  have  not  passed 

My  Ready  Rule  for  Regulating  Rates 

189 


Julius  Seizer 

ALL:   O,  Seizer! 

SEIZER  :  Hence !  wilt  ye  lift  up  Olympus  ? 
CANN.  :  Take  that !     (Stabs  SEIZER  with  a  hickory  stick.) 
DEPEWCUS  :  And  that !     (Stabs  him  with  a  very  dull  pun.) 
FAIRBANKUS  :  And  that !     (Stabs  him  with  an  icicle.) 
SEIZ.  :  Et  tu,  Fairbanks !    Where's  my  square  deal  ?     (He 
dies  politically.) 

ACT  III 

(4  camp  in  Panama.    BRUTUS  TILLMANIUS  and  CASSIUS 
CANNON  are  in  a  tent  playing  pinochle.') 

CANN.  :   Hark,  hark !   what  is  that  jar  which  shakes  the 
earth  ? 

TILL.  :  'Tis  William  Taft  who's  had  a  falling  out 
With  certain  engineers. 

CANN.  :  When  Taft  falls  out 

Of  anything,  there's  apt  to  be  an  earthquake. 

TILL.  :  As  Shakespeare  says,  you  have  an  itching  palm. 

CANN.  :  He's  wrong  again.     I  have  an  itching  back  — 
When  kind  constituents  send  undershirts 
I  wish  they  wouldn't  send  the  hair-cloth  kind. 

(Spirit-rappings.     Enter  SEIZER'S  GHOST.) 
Hello !     Great  Seizer's  Ghost  —  I  recognize 
Those  spectacles  which  glare  like  window-panes 
Above  piano-keys.     Them  teeth,  them  teeth  ! 

TILL.  :   Tush,  tush  !   Perhaps  the  weakness  of  our  eyes 
Doth  form  this  monstrous  apparition. 

CANN.  :   Speak  to  me,  what  art  thou  ? 

GHOST  :   Thy  evil  spirit,  Joseph ! 

CANN.  :  Why  comest  thou  ? 
190 


Julius  Seizer 


GHOST:    To  say  that  thou  shalt  see  me  again  in  the 
Philippines. 

(GHOST  vanishes,  kicking  over  stove  as  he  goes.) 

TILL.  :    O,  durn  the  luck !    I  thought  that  Teddy  was 
politically  dead. 

CANN.  :  I  ruther  thunk 

191 


Julius  Seizer 

That  he'd  bob  up  and  seize  another  term. 

When  Fairbanks  hears  of  this,  he'll  be  so  mad 

'Twill  almost  melt  the  glacier  on  his  spine. 
TILL.  :  The  wolves  will  howl  in  Washington  once  more  — 

Hammers  and  hatchets  can't  kill  Theodore ! 

(BRUTUS  and  CASSIUS  swallow  a  Joint  Statehood  Bill,  and 
commit  political  suicide.  Enter  SEIZER'S  GHOST,  fol- 
lowed by  Rough  Riders,  Grizzly  Bears,  Colored  Troopers, 
and  other  stage  properties.) 


192 


THE  BALLAD   OF  PANAMA  DITCH 

THERE  stands  alone  beside  the  Zone, 

A-trembling  fore  and  aft, 
A  man  of  Fate,  a  man  of  weight, 

Resembling  William  Taft. 
On  solid  earth  his  wondrous  girth 

Outswells  like  a  balloon ; 
And  by  his  fame  I  know  that  same  is 

Governor  Magoon. 

Eleven  hundred  engineers 

Stand  forth  in  sullen  fit, 
And  passing  by  they  loudly  cry, 

"We're  going  for  to  quit!" 
And  fifteen  thousand  colored  men 

To  Governor  Magoon 
Inquiring  turn,  just  for  to  learn, 

"Please,  when  will  it  be  noon?" 

O,  sultrilee  and  languidlee 

The  tropic  pulse  doth  throb, 
And  languid  spurt  the  loads  of  dirt, 

And  languid  moves  the  job ; 
Aloft  among  the  jib-jib  trees 

Sit  ravens  many  a  score, 
Who  look  askance  with  cynic  glance 

And  croak,  "  Forevermore ! " 
o  193 


The   Ballad  of  Panama  Ditch 

But,  hist !   among  the  waving  palms 

A  Man  comes  riding  bold, 
A  journalist  whose  good  right  fist 

A  fountain  pen  doth  hold  — 
Then  every  black  man  on  the  job 

Shrieks  high  a  wail  of  woe, 
And  Gov.  Magoon  falls  in  a  swoon  — 

'Tis  Poultney  Big-e-low ! 

"O,  Poultney,  Poultney  Big-e-low, 

For  very  fright  I  swoon. 
Why  hast  thou  thus  diskivered  us?" 

Quoth  Governor  Magoon. 
"O,  Mac  Magoon,  O,  Mac  Magoon, 

Thou  hireling  slave  of  Taft, 
Lo,  I  have  came  to  write  thy  name 

And  damn  thy  ditch  as  graft." 

Then  backward  to  his  trusty  ship 

P.  Big-e-low  doth  crunch, 
"My  Captain  hale,  set  sail,  set  sail  — 

We  will  not  stop  for  lunch ! " 
And  eke  he  walks  the  quarter-deck 

And  mutters  in  his  huff, 
And  eke  statistics  he  doth  write 

Upon  his  milk-white  cuff. 

At  Washington,  at  Washington, 

Where  Government  doth  dwell, 
The  King  cries,  "Ha!   our  Panama, 

By  all  reports,  doth  well, 
194 


The   Ballad  of  Panama  Ditch 

My  broiling  toilers  moil  the  soil 

Where  sleeps  the  Yellow  Jack  "  — 

(Just  then  the  ship  of  Big-e-low 
Floats  up  the  Pat  O'Mac). 

And  Taft  pales  even  to  the  chin 

When  Big-e-low  he  seeth, 
And  on  the  shore  King  Theodore 

Pales  even  to  the  teeth; 
But  Big-e-low  outcries,  "So-ho! 

I  spring  no  empty  bluff  — 
I  have  the  shame  of  Panama 

Here  written  on  my  cuff." 

"We're  lost,  Sir  Taft,"  quoth  Theodore, 

"Unless,  ere  'tis  too  late, 
We  send  a  bunch  of  Congressmen 

For  to  in-vest-i-gate." 
So  forty  tons  of  congressmen 

Of  minds  memorial. 
They  quickly  ship  upon  a  trip 

To  see  the  great  Canal. 

And  on  the  site  of  the  Canal 

The  grave  Committee  stand 
And  chew  and  smoke  and  deftly  poke 

Their  canes  into  the  sand. 
But  ere  the  hour  of  noon  arrives 

Back  turns  that  learned  bunch  — 
Like  Mr.  Poultney  Big-e-low, 

They  cannot  stop  for  lunch. 


The  Ballad  of  Panama  Ditch 

So  now,  when  haughty  engineers 

Grow  grumpy  and  resign, 
And  labor-fearing  blackamoors 

Upon  their  spades  recline, 
The  tale  of  Poultney  Big-e-low 

Is  oft  repeated  o'er; 
But  the  ravens  look  at  the  Canal 

And  croak,  "  Forevermore ! " 


196 


A  LIVELY  PARALLEL 

AL  RASCHID,  to  tradition  dear, 
Possessed  a  careful  Grand  Vizier 
Who  kept  his  letters  neat  and  nice, 
Met  visitors  and  gave  advice, 
And  otherwise  was  useful  too  — 
Like  Secretary  Cortelyou. 

Al  Raschid,  journeying  through  the  land, 
Dropped  wisdom's  pearls  on  every  hand, 
Till  Islam,  with  a  deep  salaam, 
Cried,  " Allah  praise  the  epigram!" 
But  his  Vizier  just  sat  and  drew 
His  salary  —  like  Cortelyou. 

When  delegates  of  every  sort 
Came  flocking  to  Al  Raschid 's  court, 
If  there  was  anything  that  lacked 
In  smooth  diplomacy  and  tact, 
'Twas  his  Vizier  who  always  knew  — 
Like  Secretary  Cortelyou. 

A  hundred  poets  sang  the  praise 
Of  great  Al  Raschid 's  golden  days, 
But  few  among  the  singers  there 
Observed  the  Man  behind  the  Chair, 
Who  told  the  Sultan  what  to  do  — 

Like  Secretary  Cortelyou. 
197 


A   Lively   Parallel 

But  where  would  be  the  good  Sul-tan 
Without  that  quiet,  handy  man 
To  smooth  his  road,  to  ease  his  pains, 
To  open  letters  and  campaigns? 
I'll  give  the  Grand  Vizier,  his  due  — 
And  likewise  Mr.  Cortelyou. 


198 


MONROE  DOCTRININGS 

WE  have  got  our  little  foot  in  the  Canal, 

We  have  got  the  languid  Cuban  'neath  our  eyes, 
We  have  placed  our  index  finger  on  the  lazy  San  Dominger, 

And  we're  teaching  Porto  Rico  to  be  wise. 
We  are  asking  Mister  Castro  won't  he  please 

Discontinue  his  piratical  campaigns; 

Yet  the  dark-skinned  Latin   Jingo  only  mutters,  "Dirty 
Gringo  I " 

Which  is  all  the  thanks  we're  getting  for  our  pains. 

Here's  a  bumper  to  the  doctrine  of  Monroe,  roe,  roe, 
And  the  neighbors  whom  we  cannot  let  alone; 

Through  the  thirst  for  diagnosis  we're  inserting  our  proboscis 
Into  everybody's  business  but  our  own. 

We  are  worrying  from  Texas  to  the  Horn, 
We  are  training  guns  on  Germany's  advance, 

While  we  shake  the  mail-clad  mitten  at  the  hunger  of  the 

Briton, 
And  suggest,  "Monsieur,  keep  off  the  map !"   to  France. 

Does  the  gentle  South  American  rejoice 

At  our  fatherly  protection  from  the  Powers? 

No,  alas !  the  dusky  Jingo  merely  hisses,  "Yankee  Gringo  I" 

To  reward  this  large  philanthropy  of  ours. 
199 


Monroe  Doctrinings 

Here's  a  bumper  to  the  doctrine  of  Monroe,  roe,  roe, 
Which  we  follow  when  we've  nothing  else  to  do, 

While  we  spend  our  golden  billions  to  protect  the  rag-tag 

millions, 
And  I  think  they're  making  fun  of  us,  don't  you? 


200 


HEROES:    PERISHABLE  GOODS 

HEROES  are  like  sulphur  matches, 

Scratched  and  lit,  then  thrown  away. 
Every  Dewey  has  his  arches, 

Every  Dowie  has  his  day. 
Eggs  or  laurels,  shouts  or  hisses, 

For  an  hour  Fame's  tributes  voice, 
Brief,  alas !   as  Hobson's  kisses 

(Silence,  now,  is  Hobson's  choice). 

Pastor  Wagner,  like  a  stogie 

Smoked  and  spurned,  lies  on  the  floor; 
Even  the  Rockefeller  Bogie 

Scarcely  scares  us  any  more; 
And  already  Life  Insurance 

Hardly  fills  the  public  bill  — 
In  the  name  of  all  endurance 

Can't  we  get  another  thrill? 

We  may  search  from  Maine  to  Dawson 

Vainly  in  our  hero-hunt  — 
How  can  Truthful  Thomas  Lawson 

Dish  us  up  another  stunt 
Painting  Wall  Street's  job  and  stock  work 

In  a  way  to  wreck  the  town? 
201 


Heroes :   Perishable   Goods 

Can  it  be  that  Lawson's  clockwork 
Is  discreetly  running  down? 

Gods  financial,  briefly  risen 

To  the  Seats  of  the  Admired, 
Go  to  Newport  or  to  prison 

And  are  quietly  retired. 
Gods,  alas  for  your  endeavor 

To  retain  the  public  view  — 
Nothing  seems  to  last  forever; 

No,  not  even  C.  Depew ! 


Hero-worship  suicidal's 

Scarce  to  be  encouraged,  sir  — 


202 


Heroes  :   Perishable  Goods 

All  these  perishable  idols 
Disconcert  the  worshipper. 

But  while  hands  of  desecration 
Tip  each  god  from  off  his  shelf 

We  have  yet  one  consolation  — 
Teddy  Roosevelt's  still  Himself ! 


203 


ETHICS  OF  PIRACY 

I  WONDER  if  Morgan  the  Pirate, 

When  plunder  had  glutted  his  heart, 
Gave  part  of  the  junk  from  the  ships  he  had  sunk 

To  help  some  Museum  of  Art ; 
If  he  gave  up  the  role  of  "collector  of  toll" 

And  became  a  Collector  of  Art  ? 

I  wonder  if  Genghis  the  Butcher, 

When  he'd  trampled  down  nations  like  grass, 
Retired  with  his  share,  when  he'd  lost  all  his  hair, 

And  started  a  Sunday-school  class; 
If  he  turned  his  past  under  and  used  half  his  plunder 

In  running  a  Sunday-school  class? 

I  wonder  if  Roger  the  Rover, 

When  millions  in  looting  he  made, 
Built  libraries  grand  on  the  jolly  mainland 

To  honor  Success  and  "free  trade"; 
If  he  founded  a  college  of  nautical  knowledge 

Where  Pirates  could  study  their  trade? 

I  wonder,  I  wonder,  I  wonder, 

If  Pirates  were  ever  the  same, 
Ever  trying  to  lend  a  respectable  trend 

To  the  jaunty  old  buccaneer  game ; 
Or  is  it  because  of  our  Piracy  Laws 

That  philanthropists  enter  the  game? 
204 


A  FABLE  FOR  SOCIALISTS 

A  DEER,  a  Ploughhorse,  and  a  Snail 
Met  once  in  Jove's  Olympian  vale, 

And  as  the  games  were  then  apace 
They  all  were  entered  in  a  race. 

Upon  the  scratch  they  placed  the  toe; 
The  signal  came,  "Get  ready  —  go!" 

So  Snail  and  Deer  and  clumsy  Horse 
At  divers  speeds  went  down  the  Course. 

When  Mr.  Deer  had  run  a  mile 

The  Horse  two  rods  had  paced  in  style, 

While  Willie  Snail  was  in  the  race 
Six  inches  from  the  starting  place. 

Now  Willie  Snail  had  filled  his  gorge 
With  Tolstoi,  Shaw,  and  Henry  George; 

So,  when  the  test  of  speed  was  done, 
He  cried,  "It  was  unfairly  run! 

"When  we  have  all  our  goal  to  seek, 
Shall  swift  and  strong  oppress  the  weak? 

"Cooperation's  what  we  need  — 

Let's  all  maintain  an  even  speed." 
205 


A  Fable  for  Socialists 

And  so  again  the  race  was  tried, 
The  racers  standing  side  by  side, 

And  at  the  signal  onward  pressed, 
Each  creeping  slowly,  breast  to  breast. 

An  hour  passed  by,  a  day,  a  week, 
But  still  they  kept  their  plodding  meek. 

The  Ploughhorse  dozed,  the  wild  Deer  slept, 
"Go  slow!"   the  Snail  cried  as  he  crept. 

Great  Jove  observed  this  from  on  high 
And  yawned  and  blinked  his  god-like  eye. 

"That  may  be  fair  for  all,"  he  said, 
"But  as  a  race  it's  pretty  dead." 


206 


PRACTICAL  ALCHEMISTS 

IN  good  old  mediaeval  times, 

The  days  of  fools  and  saints  and  crimes, 

The  Alchemists  in  pots  and  pans  strange-looking  soups 

were  stewing. 

By  these  manoeuvres,  so  they  said, 
They'd  make  gold  nuggets  out  of  lead  — 

But  they  were  doomed  to  grief  and  tears,  for  there  was 
nothing  doing. 

But  time  has  taught  us  just  a  few, 
And  we  have  learned  a  thing  or  two. 

The  Alchemists  are  dead,  you  ask  ?    Nay,  nay,  my  son  and 

daughter. 

For  in  that  magic  street  called  Wall, 
In  buildings  short  and  buildings  tall, 

Stand  many  Wizards  making  gold  from  paper,  wind,  and 
water. 

I've  seen  a  Wizard  take  a  mine 

(Bought  for  a  dollar  forty-nine), 

A  vacant,  worthless  hole  with  absolutely  nothing  in  it, 

And  this  he'd  mention  thus  and  so: 

"The  Persiflage  Gold  Mining  Co.  - 

Come  in  and  get  your  Dividends,  a  Dollar  Every  Minute !" 

These  words  he  sent  by  many  mails ; 

The  dollars  came  in  stacks  and  bales  — 

207 


Practical  Alchemists 

Which  shows  how  every  shark  that  swims  finds  suckers  by 

the  billions. 

He  had  no  money  to  begin, 
He  never  put  a  dollar  in; 

Yet  when  he  went  to  Ossining,  he'd  cleaned  up  thirty 
millions ! 

In  simple  ages  long  ago 

The  Alchemists  were  pretty  slow; 

They  spent   their   time  with   chemicals  a-brewing   and 

a-stewing  — 

If  they  had  put  their  empty  dream 
Into  a  fake  investment  scheme, 

They  would  have  had  their  gold  all  right  and  lots  of  doings 
doing. 


208 


AL  HALE  SPRING! 
(DEDICATED  TO  A w  C E.) 

O  JENTIL  Spring,  O  jentil  Spring ! 

I'm  glad  that  u.  r.  heer. 
O  joi !   O  blis  !   thar'z  no  such  thing 

Az  wintry  windz  to  feer. 
Let  koal  strikes  hapen  az  thay  pleez  — 
When  spring  iz  heer  we  cannot  freez. 

O  prity  burdz,  O  warbling  b  i..'z! 

What  soro  hav  u.  now? 
(Grate  Scot !   I  kannot  spel  the  wurdz 

That  sizzle  'neeth  my  brow 
Sins  A.  Karnaygy  spoyld  the  rulz 
We  ust  to  hav  in  gramar  skulz.) 

O  April  showrz,  O  buding  flowrz, 
Cowslip  and  fresh  blu-bel, 

And  rozes,  too,  and  pozes,  too, 
I  won't  attempt  to  spel ; 

Bekawz  if  I  shud  try  u.  mite 

Not  rekogniz  the  flowrz  on  site. 

On  every  breez  thar  kumz  a  sneez 

Of  rite  good  feloship 
p  209 


Al  Hale  Spring! 

By  which  we  no  that  Spring  haz  came 
And  brung  with  it  la  grip. 

But  I  must  rite  my  song  to-nite 
Tho  Northern  winds  prevail. 

So  joi !   I  sing  to  jentil  Spring 
Al  hale,  al  hale,  al  hale ! ! 


210 


STATESMEN  OF  FUTURITY 

(When  the  sleeper  wakes  in  Washington,  2004.) 

"YES,"  said  the  New  American, 

"That  happened  many  years  ago, 
When  we  were  governed  by  the  plan 

Of  Webster,  Lincoln,  or  Monroe; 
But  now  we  are  a  Foreign  Power 

Of  many  nations  nicely  blent, 
With  immigration  running  our 

Good  Anglo  Saxon  government. 

"Yon  statesman  with  the  wide  frock  coat  — 

You  don't  know  him  ?     That's  Hans  von  Raus, 
Republican  from  Maine;  his  vote 

Controls  three-quarters  of  the  House. 
That's  Congressman  Martini  there, 

And  Representative  O'Toole. 
There's  Ole  Olesen  —  statesmen  swear 

By  his  world-famous  Unit  Rule. 

"A  moment's  passing  notice  give 

To  yon  dark  member  with  the  scar: 
Manila's  representative, 

Emilio  de  Malabar. 
You  ask  me  who's  that  portly  gent 

Whom  they  are  cheering  down  the  line? 
Why,  don't  you  know  the  President? 

That's  Abraham  J.  Cohenstein. 


Statesmen  of  Futurity 

"You  ask  for  some  familiar  name 

Which  you  were  once  accustomed  to. 
Our  times,  of  course,  are  not  the  same; 

And  Yankee  names  are  rather  few. 
You  see  yon  poor  old  codger  with 

The  look  of  one  o'er  fond  of  drink? 
He's  Honorable  Henry  Smith  — 

The  White  House  Janitor,  I  think." 


212 


ABDUL  HAMID:    AN  APPRECIATION 

VIRTUOUS  monarch  and  cautious  Saladin, 

Heir  of  Mohammed  and  Balance  of  Power, 
Poorer  than  Lazarus,  rich  as  Aladdin, 

Satan's  left  member  and  Heaven's  right  bower, 
What  though  the  preachers  decry  your  barbarity, 

What  though  the  Nations  extinction  advise? 
Let  the  true  Koran  extol  you  for  charity  — 
Abdul  the  Merciful,  Hamid  the  Wise ! 
What  though  we're  blocked  by  you, 
What  though  we're  shocked  by  you, 
Sceptres  are  hocked  by  you  under  our  eyes, 
Yet  there's  serenity 
In  your  obscenity, 
Abdul  the  Merciful,  Hamid  the  Wise ! 

Guided  by  Heaven  you  scourge  the  Armenian 
(When  you  need  widows  to  stock  your  hareem), 

Smoother  your  work  than  Mafia  or  Fenian, 
Swifter  your  plans  than  a  Borgia's  dream. 

You  are  a  problem  that  calls  for  unravelling, 
Dense  as  the  Sphinx  —  and  as  permanent  too  — 

Europe  seems  eager  to  set  you  a-travelling  — 

Allah  il  allah,  but  what  can  she  do? 
213 


Abdul  Hamid :  An  Appreciation 

Vain  is  their  phosphorus 
Aimed  at  the  Bosphorus, 
Still  your  mien  prosperous  malice  defies, 
And  your  solemnity, 


Cheating  indemnity, 

Beggars  comparison,  Hamid  the  Wise ! 
214 


Abdul  Hamid :  An  Appreciation 

Cutting  and  slashing's  an  ancient  tradition  you 

Learned  from  your  ancestors  hundred  or  more ; 
Still  you  may  see,  when  the  Nations  partition  you, 

Cutting  and  slashing  go  on  as  of  yore. 
Allah  is  great,  and  the  Powers  may  still  juggle  you, 
Tilting  your  throne  on  the  balance  they  prize  — 
Better  breathe  carefully  lest  in  the  struggle  you 
Ruin  your  equipoise,  Hamid  the  Wise ! 
King  problematical, 
Yet  operatical, 

That  you're  fanatical  does  not  surprise; 
What  we'd  all  care  to  do 
None  of  us  dare  to  do, 
So  here's  long  life  to  you,  Hamid  the  Wise ! 


THE  U.  S.  SENATE:    AN  APPRECIATION 

AGAIN  the  great  Senate  in  session 

We'll  view  with  a  spasm  of  pride, 
Bright  angels  of  Solon's  profession, 

With  waistcoats  cut  piously  wide. 
Strong  pillars  on  which  a  great  Nation 

May  lean  with  Prosperity  decked. 
(If  you  don't  admire  this  ovation, 

Pray  what  are  you  led  to  expect?) 

Hear  all  those  mentalities  humming 

O'er  many  a  weighty  affair, — 
That  the  Beef  Trust  may  have  all  that's  coming, 

That  Railroads  shan't  want  for  their  share, 
That  the  lordly  Insurance  Promoters 

Shall  take  what  they  choose  to  select. 
(If  this  doesn't  tickle  the  Voters, 

Pray  what  are  you  led  to  expect?) 

There's  Senator  Hush  in  the  lobby 

(He  represents  Land  Frauds  and  Coal), 

There's  Senator  Rebate,  whose  hobby 

Is  Stockyards  (they  purchased  his  soul), 

There's  Senator  Tariff,  whose  thunder 
Proclaims  he  has  Steel  to  protect. 

(Do  you  get  protection,  you  wonder? 

Pray  what  are  you  led  to  expect?) 
216 


The  U.  S.  Senate :   An  Appreciation 

The  fact  which  makes  pessimists  scoff  is 

The  fact  that  the  flocks  are  all  geese; 
They  hurry  the  wolves  into  office, 

Then  popular  interests  cease. 
When  bribes  run  as  high  as  the  steeple 

And  laws  come  by  railroad  direct, 
If  the  Senate  won't  speak  for  the  People, 

Pray  what  can  the  People  expect? 


217 


A  RHYME   OF  PURE  REASON 

A  CHRISTIAN  SCIENCE  Proselyte, 
Alone  upon  a  mountain  height, 

Was  Pondering  upon  the  vain 
Belief  in  non-existent  Pain, 

How  nervous  Dread  of  any  kind 
Was  an  Illusion  of  the  Mind, 

When  coming  down  the  mountain  side 
A  dreadful  Lion  he  espied. 

The  Proselyte  said,  "Mercy  me !" 
And  quickly  Scuttled  up  a  Tree. 

Next  Morning  at  the  rise  of  sun 
There  came  an  Unconverted  One 

Who  saw  the  Proselyte  at  bay 
And  drove  the  hungry  Beast  away.  • 

The  Cynic  said,  "Aha!   I  see 

Your  Claim  has  got  you  up  a  Tree." 

"Your  judgment,"  said  the  Proselyte, 
"Arises  from  Imperfect  Sight. 

"A  Lion,  to  a  Soul  refined, 

Is  an  Illusion  of  the  Mind." 
218 


A  Rhyme  of  Pure   Reason 

"If  that's  the  Case,"  the  Cynic  said, 
"Why  show  these  human  signs  of  Dread? 

"Why  pass  the  night,  secure  from  harm, 
In  yonder  Elevated  Palm?" 

"Friend,"  said  the  Saint,  "If   you  but  knew! 
This  Tree  is  an  Illusion,  too. 

"When  in  a  Jungle,  far  from  Home, 
Where  purely  Mental  Lions  roam, 

"It  puts  one  more  at  Ease  to  be 
Up  some  Imaginary  Tree." 

"How  great  is  Mind  !"   the  Stranger  cried, 
And  went  his  way  quite  Eddy-fied. 


219 


ADVERTISEMENT 

WHEN  Cleopatra,  wise  old  girl, 
Got  gay  one  night  and  drank  a  pearl, 
All  frugal  folk  cried  out,  "For  Shame!" 
But  marvelled  at  her  just  the  same. 
And  she  was  right  and  she  was  wise 
To  thus  get  in  and  advertise. 

When  Cheops  made  his  subjects  bid 
On  contracts  for  a  pyramid, 
He  got  a  tomb  well  worth  a  king 
(Though  not  a  very  useful  thing). 
But  he  was  right  and  he  was  wise 
To  thus  get  in  and  advertise. 

When  old  Diogenes  began 
Pot-hunting  for  an  honest  man 
His  chances  for  success  were  slim ; 
But  folks  began  discussing  him  — 
And  he  was  right  and  he  was  wise 
To  thus  get  in  and  advertise. 

When  Dr.  Johnson  made  a  spree 
Of  forty-seven  cups  of  tea, 
He  surely  showed  his  savoir  faire 
By  having  Mr.  Boswell  there  — 
And  he  was  right  and  he  was  wise 

To  thus  get  in  and  advertise. 
220 


Advertisement 

'Tis  sad,  but  it  is  true,  the  same, 
That  those  who  fill  the  Book  of  Fame 
Have  left  their  records,  more  or  less, 
Through  some  tremendous  foolishness  — 
Yet  they  were  right  and  they  were  wise 
To  thus  get  in  and  advertise. 

Blame  not  the  actress  out  of  funds 
Who  plans  to  lose  her  diamonds, 
Blame  not  the  millionnaire  who  capers 
To  get  his  actions  in  the  papers; 
They've  little  to  immortalize, 
But  they  at  least  can  advertise. 


221 


SYMPTOMS  OF   GREATNESS 

'Tis  said  that  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

From  classic  halls  of  knowledge 
Was  curtly  asked  to  pack  and  go. 
If  this  is  so 
I'm  much  like  Poe 

(I,  too,  was  fired  from  college). 

And  Bunyan,  when  ill-fortune  knocked, 

His  genius  no  avail, 
In  prison  was  securely  locked, 
His  trinkets  hocked  — 
Pray  be  not  shocked 

(I,  too,  have  been  in  jail). 

And  Epictetus,  knowing  well 

His  soul  by  gods  enthused, 
His  manuscripts  could  never  sell; 
By  which  I  spell 
A  parallel 

(I've  often  been  refused). 

Nol  Goldsmith  was  a  stupid  Mike 

As  all  his  friends  well  knew. 
I  have  some  qualities  which  strike 
My  friends  as  like 
That  classic  tike 

(For  I  am  stupid,  too). 
222 


Symptoms  of  Greatness 

The  faults  of  genius  all  are  mine 
•    And  proudly  I  command  'em, 
An  inspiration  and  a  sign 
That  I'm  in  line 
To  live  and  shine 

(Quod  erat  demonstrandum). 


223 


"  PROVINCIAL  " 

OUTSIDE  New  York,  in  some  vague  place, 
There  lives  a  stranger,  outland  race 
Who  bear  the  infinite  disgrace 

Of  being  called  " Provincial." 
Their  minds  are  rudimentary; 
They  have  no  God  or  Tammany; 
Their  clothing,  cut  outrageously, 

Is  shockingly  "Provincial." 

To  them  R.  Mansfield  sometimes  goes, 
And  sometimes  Heinrich  Conried  shows 
His  Parsifalians,  for  he  knows 

There's  money  in  "Provincials." 
But  if  these  artists  fail  to  make 
A  hit,  their  worldly  heads  they  shake, 
"To  show  high  art's  a  great  mistake 

Among  the  rude  '  Provincials.'  " 

All  but  New  York  is  thus  effaced, 

Chicago  is  a  barren  waste, 

St.  Louis  seven  times  disgraced 

By  that  black  word  "Provincial." 
And  if  her  sister  cities  show 
New  York  a  thing  that  she  should  know, 
She  simply  lifts  her  eyebrows,  "Oh," 

Quite  decent  —  but  "Provincial." 
224 


YOU  MAY  LEAD  A  HORSE  TO  WATER 

DOUBTLESS  we  are  sick  with  knowledge 
And  the  brain  too  harshly  rules; 

Every  crossroads  has  its  college, 
Every  town  its  graded  schools. 

And  the  slums  are  full  of  classes 

Masked  in  charitable  guise, 
Where  the  children  of  the  masses 

May  become  a  little  wise. 

And  the  master,  uncomplaining, 

Moves  among  the  western  tribes, 

Gives  the  Siwash  mental  training, 
Turns  Apaches  into  scribes. 

While  the  Filipino  teachers 

In  Luzon  and  Malabar 
Show  the  little  brown-skinned  creatures 

What  the  vulgar  fractions  are. 

Yet  Apaches  get  their  whiskey, 

And  their  war-paint  —  when  they  can ; 
And  rebellion's  germ  is  frisky 

In  the  sallow  yellow  man. 
Q  225 


You  May  Lead  a  Horse  to  Water 

And  in  vain  wise  words  we  utter 
To  the  slum-child's  tender  age; 

For  the  sparrow  seeks  the  gutter 
When  he  quits  his  tidy  cage. 

Though  the  Angels  gladly  patter 

At  fair  Wisdom's  fountain-brink, 

You  may  lead  a  horse  to  water; 

But  you  cannot  make  him  —  think. 


226 


EDUCATION 

(President  Butler  of  Columbia  declares  that  the  college  course  is 
too  long.) 

ERASMUS  SMITH,  a  boy  of  twelve, 

To  district  school  went  he, 
Intending,  even  in  those  days, 

A  doctor  for  to  be. 

At  sixteen  he  to  high  school  went, 

Took  physiologee, 
Still  bent  upon  his  life  pursuit, 

A  doctor  for  to  be. 

At  twenty-one  Erasmus  Smith 

To  college  journeyed  he, 
Intent  to  take  a  four  years'  course, 

A  doctor  for  to  be. 

When  Smith's  four  college  years  were  done 

His  profs  declared  that  he 
Must  take  three  years  post  graduate, 

A  doctor  for  to  be. 

Then  after  this  Erasmus  spent 

Five  years  in  Germanee 
(This  must  be  done,  the  pedants  said, 

A  doctor  for  to  be). 

22? 


Education 

At  thirty-five  Erasmus  Smith 

Repaired  to  gay  Paree 
To  learn  the  Gallic  arts  wherewith 

A  doctor  for  to  be. 

Smith  was  a  man  of  forty-two, 

And  somewhat  bald  was  he, 
When  he  came  back  to  Reubensville 

A  doctor  for  to  be. 

But  nine  long  years  in  hospitals 

He  had  to  practise  free, 
Ere  folks  believed  him  old  enough 

A  doctor  for  to  be. 

Poor  Smith  became  discouraged  some 

When  he  was  fifty-three, 
And  wondered  why  he'd  worked  so  long 

A  doctor  for  to  be. 

Just  then  a  millionnaire  got  sick, 

And  Smith  sent  in  a  fee 
Which  showed  him  plainly  how  it  pays 

A  doctor  for  to  be. 


228 


SONG  OF  THE  UNIMPROVED 

IF  George  Ade  wrote  like  Henry  James, 
And  Dooley  wrote  like  Howells, 

And  Lawson  wrote  like  Andrew  Lang, 
In  esoteric  growls, 

How  difficult  our  world  would  be, 

How  lacking  in  variety ! 

If  Morgan  lived  the  simple  life, 

If  Ireland's  folk  were  free, 
If  Newport's  gilded  gang  became 

A  Quaker  colony, 

How  would  our  patience  then  give  out, 
With  nothing  new  to  talk  about? 

If  Melba,  like  Fay  Templeton, 

Should  dance  in  fol-de-rol, 
If  Peter  Dailey  were  engaged 

To  sing  in  "Parsifal," 
Would  not  the  game  seem  new  and  strange, 
A  little  sadder  for  the  change? 

If  Russell  Sage,  in  reckless  mood, 

Gave  libraries  away, 
If  William  Jennings  should  declare 

He'd  nothing  more  to  say, 
Wouldn't  there  sweep  across  the  nation 

A  certain  sense  of  desolation? 
229 


Song  of  the  Unimproved 

For  we  have  made  our  Pantheon, 

Describe  it  as  you  will, 
And  though  our  idols  are  of  clay, 

By  Jove,  we  love  'em  still ! 
And  it  would  pain  us  to  the  souls 
To  give  old  favorites  new  roles. 


230 


MR.   SHAW'S  PROFESSION 

MR.  SHAW'S  Profession: 

Something  to  shock  the  wise, 
Something  to  preach  and  something  to  teach, 

And  something  to  advertise; 
Wit  of  a  hectic  flavor, 

Showing  that  wrong  is  right, 
Trying  to  paint  the  Things  as  they  Ain't, 

Proving  that  soot  is  white. 

Mr.  Shaw's  Profession: 

Making  The  Bilious  pay, 
Treading  our  toes  and  thumbing  his  nose 

(Which  he  does  in  the  cleverest  way). 
Breaking  our  holy  relics 

Merrily  over  the  stones, 
To  cut  and  slash  with  piratical  dash 

At  the  sign  of  the  skull  and  bones. 

Mr.  Shaw's  Profession : 

To  laugh  at  the  sweet  and  clean, 
To  flaunt  his  flams  in  epigrams 

Which  he  really  doesn't  mean; 
Mocking  at  stupid  Virtue 

Like  an  impudent  Irish  elf, 
And  backing  his  bluff  with  a  bushel  of  Stuff 

Which  he  doesn't  believe  himself. 
231 


THE  HEATHEN  DEVIL 

(The  Empress  of  China  has  purchased  an  automobile.) 

ON  the  Sacred  Central  City  now  a  new  enchantment  lies, 
And  the  image  of  Confucius  looks  around  and  blinks   its 

eyes 

While  the  Golden  Dragon  wags  his  tail  in  horror  and  sur- 
prise — 
For  Tsi  An's  gone  out  riding  in  her  auto ! 

All  the  ugly  little  idols  in  the  Temple  of  the  Fan, 
Who  have  sat  serene  and  quiet  since  the  dynasty  began, 
Now  are  shuddering  and  whispering  opinions  of  Tsi  An, 
Who's  gone  out  buggy  riding  in  her  auto. 

In  the  courts  the  stately  Mandarins  with  trailing  plumes  of 

blue 

By  many  a  lily-maiden  with  a  number  zero  shoe 
Sit  idly  in  flirtation  —  for  they've  nothing  else  to  do, 
Since  Tsi  An's  gone  out  riding  in  her  auto. 

No  more  with  past  offenders  are  the  royal  fishes  fed, 
No  more  the  pale  reformer  is  to  execution  led, 
And  the  sly  Provincial  Viceroy  serenely  keeps  his  head  — 
While  Tsi  An's  gone  out  riding  in  her  auto. 

"Great  Scott !"   remarked  the  Lord  High  Ying,  whose    in- 
dignation grows, 

"There's  a  Marquis  to  be  poisoned   and   a   Princess   to 
depose ; 

232 


The  Heathen  Devil 

Yet  no  one  tends  to  business  when  the  Queen  of  Heaven  goes 
Choo-chooing  in  that  heathen  devil  auto." 

Yet  every  Chink  in  gay  Pekin  his  lady's  skill  attests 
While  corps  of  pig-tailed  surgeons  are  repairing  legs  and 

chests, 

And  the  Royal  Chinese  Hospital  is  full  of  groaning  guests  — 
When  Tsi  An's  been  out  riding  in  her  auto. 


233 


AN  ADVERTISING  " RAVEN" 

ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  as  I  pondered  limp  and  leery, 

O'er   the   gilt-framed    advertisements   which   the   Subway 
station  bore, 

As  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tap- 
ping, 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,   rapping  at  the  Subway 
floor  — 

As  of  some  one  cracking  hickory  nuts  upon  the  Sub'vay 

floor. 
Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Ah  !  distinctly  I  remember  —  it  was  just  about  December, 
And  the  "high  art"  advertisements  had  stirred  up  a  public 

roar; 

But  the  fact  which  I  confess  is  that  I  tore  my  flaxen  tresses, 
Waiting  for  those  "fast  expresses,"  which  were  coming  slow 

and  slow'r  — 

Flowing  like  a  languid  ripple  of  molasses  —  only  slow'r. 
Fast  as  that,  and  nothing  more. 

As  I  viewed  the  walls  uncertain,  like  an  advertising  curtain 
Suddenly  a  crow  or  something  from  the  darkness  seemed  to 

soar, 
With  a  flutter,  quite  improper,  swooped  above  the  ticket 

chopper, 

To  the  bust  of  Mr.  Pallas  just  above  the  Subway  door  — 

234 


An  Advertising  "  Raven  " 

Bust  of  Advertising  Pallas  just  above  the  Subway  door. 
Simply  this  and  nothing  more. 

"Raven !"   cried  I,  "crow,  or  turkey,  from  your  lofty  perch 

and  perky, 

Tell  me,  will  those  advertising  horrors  ever  cease  to  bore ; 
Will  these  boosts  for  soap  and  candy,  hair  oil,  theatres,  and 

brandy, 
Find  at  last  entombment  handy  in  the  junk-room's  sorry 

store  — 
With  the  last  year's  campaign  banners  of  the  junk-room's 

sorry  store?" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore!" 

"Prophet!"   cried  I,  "thing  of  evil!  —  you're  a  sassy  little 
devil. 

Shall  we  clothe  our  architecture  in  this  advertising  lore; 

Would  you  nail  these  daubs  of  gilding  to  the  Art  Museum 
building, 

Paint  a  whiskey  ad.  on  Horace  Greeley's  statue,  I  implore  ? — 

Paint  'Pink  Pills'  upon  the  large  Bartholdi  Statue,  I  im- 
plore?" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Don't  get  sore!" 

As  I    threw    these    spasms  vocal,  the   conductor  shouted 

"Local!" 

And  I  travelled  City  Hallward  with  a  truly  Subway  roar; 
But   the   Raven,   never   blinking,    still   remained   severely 

thinking, 

On  the  bust  of  Mr.  Pallas,  just  above  the  Subway  door; 
For  the  Bird  and  the  Commissioner  above  the  Subway  door, 
Knew  the  password,  "Nevermore!" 
235 


A  DRAMATIC  SUCCESS 

THE  tunes  were  made  by  Johnson, 

The  harmonies  by  Brown; 
The  "  book"  was  done  by  Anderson, 

The  jokes  by  William  Towne; 
The  scenic  job,  by  Alphonse  Daub, 

Was  posted  as  "a  dream"; 
Smith  did  the  tights  and  Jones  the  lights 

And  Hill  the  color-scheme. 


By  Reginald  von  Herbert 
The  orchestra  was  led; 
Cornelius  Biggs  designed  the  wigs 

Which  crowned  each  choral  head ; 
236 


A  Dramatic  Success 

Goldstein  and  Co.  supplied  the  show 
With  grease-paint  and  cold  cream, 

And  Pete  McGann  the  spot-light  ran 
Which  gave  the  star  her  gleam. 

The  leader  of  the  chorus 

Was  little  Gertie  Gymff  — 
A  perfect  dear !  —  she  held  a  spear 

And  did  it  like  a  nymph. 
Bill  Sykes  was  stage  mechanic 

(We  print  his  name  with  pride), 
And  James  McGrew,  head  usher,  too, 

Earned  acclamation  wide. 
Kahn  held  the  ticket  window 

And  Wilson  held  the  door, 
And  Izzinger,  the  manager, 

His  honors  proudly  bore. 
But  one  srriall  name,  withheld  from  fame, 

Was  scorned  or  else  forgot; 
The  oversight  was  only  right  — 

He  merely  wrote  the  plot. 


237 


THE  MOB 

THE  Mob  is  a  monster  with  numerous  legs, 
And  now  he  throws  roses  and  now  he  throws  eggs, 
And  he's  always  a-rushing  with  strenuous  looks 
After  lynchings  and  lectures,  religions  and  books. 

A  blundering  dragon,  he  lays  back  his  ears, 
And  when  he  feels  nasty,  his  cheers  become  jeers; 
But  when  he  feels  genial,  he  likes  to  enrich 
Both  Authors  and  Actors  and  Artists  and  sich. 

When  the  Mob  has  a  Favorite  none  can  deny 
It's  awfully  nice  to  be  lifted  so  high ; 
But  trust  not  the  Beast  —  for  ere  many  short  weeks 
He'll  bring  down  his  pet  by  the  slack  of  his  breeks. 

The  Mob,  like  the  jolly  old  King  of  Touraine, 
First  gallops  up  hill  and  then  roars  down  again ; 
Is  always  emitting  his  fire,  smoke,  and  fizz 
Over  some  prehistoric  old  grievance  of  his. 

The  Mob  has  an  appetite  jaded  and  high 
Which  thousands  of  cooks  labor  hard  to  supply, 
And  they  ply  him  with  dainties  —  till  likely  as  not 
He  yells  for  some  dish  they've  entirely  forgot. 

The  Mob  is  surrounded  by  folk  who  affect 

To  hate  and  despise  him  —  but,  faith,  they  respect 
238 


The  Mob 

His  pleasure  enough  to  employ  tooth  and  nail 
For  a  grin  from  his  lips  and  a  wag  from  his  tail. 

The  Mob,  like  the  Dragon  of  mythical  art, 
Is  a  wrong-headed,  stupid  old  bluffer  at  heart  — 
Just  needing  a  Master  in  citizen's  clo'es 
To  lead  him  about  with  a  ring  in  his  nose ! 


239 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  A  PUBLIC   QUESTION 

I  AM  a  Public  Question  and  a  little  past  my  prime, 

But  I've  wrestled  with  some  pretty  lively  fellows  in  my  time ; 

I'm  somewhat  frayed  and  type-worn  now,  and  scarred  and 

crippled,  too  — 
I  guess  you'd  wear  a  crutch  if  you'd  been  through  what  I've 

been  through. 

From  China  or  the  Philippines  —  it  doesn't  matter  where  — 
Into  the  light  of  public  view  they  dragged  me  by  the  hair, 
And  ere  the  demons  of  the  press  had  fairly  set  me  free 
A  thousand  editorials  were  jumping  on  to  me. 

The  Sun,  though  beaming  brightly,  teased  me  with  his  verbal 

chaff, 

And  E.  S.  Martin  trimmed  me  with  a  pungent  paragraph, 
While  Mr.  Norman  Hapgood,  when  he  came  to  have  his  say, 
Touched  up  my  solar  plexus  in  his  suave,  ironic  way. 

Then  Mr.   Brisbane,  treating  me  in  terms  of  Hearst  and 

drink, 
Asked  WHY  do  cattle  chew  the  cud?    and  ordered  me  to 

THINK  ! ! ! 

Next  Colonel  Watterson  arose  and  peppered  me  with  lead  — 
Being  a  Household  Word,  I  can't  repeat  the  things  he  said. 

When  Howells,  in  reminiscent  mood,  had  caught  me  on  the 
run, 

240 


The  Confessions  of  a  Public  Question 

An  Irish  accent  blocked  my  way  —  alas !    'twas  Dooley 

Dunne 

Who  tickled  all  my  lonesome  ribs  till  I  must  laugh  or  die 
And  whispered  blarney  in  my  ear  —  then  poked  me  in  the 

eye! 

Oh,  how  he  waltzed  upon  my  head  and  whistled  down  my 

spine 

And  pasted  epigrams  upon  this  dignity  of  mine, 
Then  called  in  Mr.  Hennessey  to  view  my  silly  mien 
A- wearing  of  a  fool's  cap  to  "The  Wearing  o'  the  Green." 

I  am  a  Public  Question  bent  with  bitter  days  and  sore, 
But  Fate  is  kind  to  ripe  old  age,  and  troublous  times  are 

o'er; 

So  may  I  creep  away  to  rest  a  quiet  year  or  two 
In  some  provincial,  quiet  little  quarterly  review. 


241 


LIARS   OF  ALL  AGES 

HERE'S  to  the  Liars  who  pepper  all  history, 

Spirits  too  lofty  for  trivial  facts, 
Whole-cloth  contortionists,  dealers  in  mystery, 

Marvellous  tellers  of  marvellous  acts. 
Think  of  your  Homer,  Selkirk,  and  Herodotus, 

Vi»id  in  details  that  never  occurred, 
Full  of  inaccurate  statements  to  prod  at  us 

Gravely  dished  up  as  the  gospel  and  word. 

Think  of  the  jovial  old  Ananiases, 

Think  of  the  Jonah  who  stuffed  the  poor  whale, 
Think  of  Munchausen's  and  Rabelais'  biases, 

Stopping  at  naught  to  adorn  a  good  tale. 
See  the  explorer  De  Leon's  mendacity 

Prating  of  Florida's  Carlsbads  of  youth  — 
Scorn  not  the  falsehoods  that  proved  their  sagacity  — 

Where  would  they  be  had  they  stuck  to  the  truth? 

Seldom  has  battle  occurred  in  the  annals  of 
Man  but  the  Liar  was  there  with  his  pad, 

Turning  the  rivers  of  truth  in  the  channels  of 
Fiction  and  fable,  diverting  though  mad. 

Seldom  has  monarch's  will  gone  to  the  surrogate, 
Seldom  were  nations  destroyed  or  begun 

But  what  the  Liar  was  there  to  prevaricate, 

Tripping  high  Jove  on  the  yarns  that  he  spun. 
242 


Liars  of  All  Ages 

Where  are  the  Liars  renowned  of  antiquity, 

Blithe  with  a  destiny  brave  to  fulfil, 
Making  immortal  the  fertile  iniquity 

Splashed  from  the  inkhorn  and  dropped  from  the  quill  ? 
Stanch,  gallant  souls !   stoutly  still  they  are  laboring 

Far  in  the  East  where  the  carnage  abounds. 
There,  midst  the  shooting  and  shelling  and  sabering, 

The  War  Correspondent  is  right  on  the  grounds. 


243 


BEHIND   THE   COMIC   MASK 


SONG  FOR  A  CRACKED  VOICE 

WHEN  I  was  young  and  slender,  a  spender,  a  lender, 
What  gentleman  adventurer  was  prankier  than  I, 

Who  lustier  at  passes  with  glasses  —  and  lasses, 

How  pleasant  was  the  look  of  'em  as  I  came  jaunting  by ! 
(But  now  there's  none  to  sigh  at  me  as  I  come  creaking  by.) 

Then  Pegasus  went  loping  'twixt  hoping  and  toping, 
A  song  in  every  dicky-bird,  a  scent  in  every  rose; 

What  moons  for  lovelorn  glances,  romances,  and  dances, 
And  how  the  spirit  of  the  waltz  went  thrilling  to  my  toes ! 
(Egad,  it's  now  a  gouty  pang  goes  thrilling  to  my  toes !) 

Was  I  that  lover  frantic,  romantic,  and  antic, 

Who  found  the  lute  in  Molly's  voice,  the  heaven  in  her  eyes  ? 
Who,  madder  than  a  hatter,  talked  patter?     No  matter. 
Call  not  that  little,  youthful  ghost,  but  leave  it  where  it 

lies ! 

(Dear,  dear,  how  many  winter  snows  have  drifted  where 
she  lies !) 

But  now  I'm  old  and  humble,  why  mumble  and  grumble 
At  all  the  posy-linked  rout  that  hurries  laughing  by? 

Framed  in  my  gold-rimmed  glasses  each  lass  is  who  passes 
And  Youth  is  still  a-twinkling  in  the  corner  of  my  eye. 

(How  strange  you  cannot  see  it  in  the  corner  of  my  eye !) 


247 


FROM  ROMANY  TO   ROME 

UPON  the  road  to  Romany 

It's  stay,  friend,  stay ! 
There's  lots  o'  love  and  lots  o'  time 

To  linger  on  the  way; 
Poppies  for  the  twilight, 

Roses  for  the  noon, 
It's  happy  goes  as  lucky  goes 

To  Romany  in  June. 

But  on  the  road  to  Rome  —  oh 

It's  march,  man,  march ! 
The  dust  is  on  the  chariot  wheels, 

The  sere  is  on  the  larch; 
Helmets  and  javelins 

And  bridles  flecked  with  foam, — 
The  flowers  are  dead,  the  world's  ahead 

Upon  the  road  to  Rome. 

But  on  the  road  to  Rome  —  ah, 

It's  fight,  man,  fight ! 
Footman  and  horseman 

Treading  left  and  right, 
Camp-fires  and  watch-fires 

Ruddying  the  gloam  — 
The  fields  are  gray  and  worn  away 

Along  the  road  to  Rome. 
248 


From  Romany  to  Rome 

Upon  the  road  to  Romany 

It's  sing,  boys,  sing! 
Though  rag  and  pack  be  on  our  back 

We'll  whistle  at  the  King. 
Wine  is  in  the  sunshine, 

Madness  in  the  moon, 
And  de'il  may  care  the  road  we  fare 

To  Romany  in  June. 

Along  the  road  to  Rome,  alas ! 

The  glorious  dust  is  whirled, 
Strong  hearts  are  fierce  to  see 

The  City  of  the  World ; 
Yet  footfall  or  bugle-call 

Or  thunder  as  ye  will, 
Upon  the  road  to  Romany 

The  birds  are  calling  still ! 


249 


WITH  A  POSY  IN  HIS   BUTTONHOLE 

I  LIKED  to  see  the  way  he  stepped ;  his  face  was  crossed  with 

seams, 

But  sprightly  as  a  child's  it  kept  the  freshness  of  its  dreams, 
Or  like  a  sage,  perhaps,  he  saw  the  way  to  reconcile 
His  gentle  living  to  the  law,  We  pray  best  when  we  smile. 

With  a  posy  in  his  buttonhole  —  his  brow  was  bald,  God 

bless  his  soul ! 

But  his  step  was  light  and  strong; 
His  jaunty  swagger  seemed  to  click  in  cadence  with  his 

walking  stick; 
With  a  posy  in  his  buttonhole  he  jogged  his  way  along. 

A  watcher  in  the  parks  he  sat.     I  think  that  he  preferred 
The  sparrow  with  his  gutter-chat  to  any  singing  bird, 
As  one,  in  Fate's  inclemencies,  who  did  not  choose  to  grieve 
Or  wear  his  tender  tragedies  upon  his  rusty  sleeve. 

With  a  posy  in  his  buttonhole  he  puffed  his  pipe,  and  in  a 

droll 

Young  humor  passed  the  throng. 
Whom  the  gods  hate  they  first  make  sad ;  but  being  blessed 

in  being  glad, 
With  a  posy  in  his  buttonhole  he  jogged  his  way  along. 

And  some  there  went  in  broadcloth  weeds,  and  long  the  face 

they  drew; 
And  some  there  went  in  shabby  tweeds  —  and  his  were  none 

too  new. 

250 


With  a  Posy  in  His  Buttonhole 

But  when  he  lay  with  fever  parched,  and  when  his  light  was 

spent, 
Through  the  gray  Gates  of  Death  he  marched,  and  whistled 

as  he  went. 

With  a  posy  in  his  buttonhole  —  and  where  he  lies,  the  merry 

soul, 

I  hope  the  blossoms  say, 
"Though  Fate,  the  Charlatan,  be  vile,  let  her  not  cheat  you 

of  your  smile. 

Pluck  a  posy  for  your  buttonhole,  and  jog  along  your 
way!" 


251 


IN  A  JAPANESE   GARDEN 

IN  a  garden  wee  and  cool  — 
Stunted  pine  and  fairy  pool  — 
Tinkling,  tinkling  now  and  then 
On  her  carven  samisen, 
Sighing  for  the  little  man 
Gone  to  fight  for  dear  Japan, 
Sits  the  girl,  Oyucha  San. 

Ah,  but  you  were  proud  of  heart 

When  you  saw  his  troops  depart ! 

Riding  like  a  foreign  lord, 

Boots  and  cap  and  dangling  sword, 

Demi-god  and  hero-man 

Who  would  make  a  new  Japan  — 

Thus  he  seemed,  Oyucha  San. 

"Good  success!"   I  heard  you  pray 
On  the  hour  he  went  away. 
Should  the  gods  heed,  can  you  guess 
What  may  come  with  "good  success"? 
How  his  sword  may  change  the  plan 
Of  the  silken  old  Japan, 
Almond-eyed  Oyucha  San? 

Hear  the  crickets'  reedy  tune ! 

See  the  lantern  of  the  moon 
252 


In  a  Japanese  Garden 

Glint  the  lacquer  on  the  deep 
Where  the  gray  carp  lies  asleep ! 
Why  should  armies  scheme  and  plan 
Dun  ambition  for  Japan 
Which  is  blessed,  Oyucha  San? 

How  the  gods  may  be  surprised 
When  Nippon  grows  "civilized"! 
When  the  spade  of  commerce  threads 
Railroads  through  your  iris  beds; 
Vanish  clogs,  kimono,  fan, 
Vanish  beauty  from  Japan  — 
Vanish  you,  Oyucha  San ! 

Progress  calls  you,  so  alas ! 
Yeddo's  blossom  time  must  pass. 
Soon  you'll  hear  the  grinding  mill 
Shriek  and  fume  on  Nara's  hill 
O'er  an  ugly,  changed  Japan: 
And  for  this  your  little  man 
Goes  to  war,  Oyucha  San. 


253 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SAMURAI 

THE  sword  of  the  Samurai  gleams  still 

In  the  arms  of  a  new  Japan ; 
Though  the  knights  be  dead,  there's  an  ancient  thrill 

That  comes  to  the  fighting  man. 
Pride  of  a  dauntless  nation  rings  — 

Firm  is  his  battle  cry  — 
List  to  the  Nippon  host  that  sings 

The  song  of  the  Samurai:  — 

"Though  our  thews  be  small,  yet  our  hearts  are  great, 

And  our  souls,  they  are  souls  of  fire. 
Here's  a  sword  for  love,  and  a  sword  for  hate, 

In  the  war  god's  hot  desire. 
Who  cares  for  Death  when  a  passion  fair 

Gives  us  joy  by  the  blade  to  die  ? 
For  we'll  strike  to  the  heart  of  the  Russian  bear 

With  the  sword  of  the  Samurai. 

"By  that  long,  smooth  edge  that  our  fathers  wrought, 

On  a  forge  that  a  god's  breath  blew; 
By  that  lacquered  hilt  that  the  artists  fraught 

With  the  zeal  that  the  heroes  knew, 
Let  us  on  where  the  northern  barbarians  fare, 

Flaunting  their  banners  high  — 
And  we'll  strike  to  the  heart  of  the  Russian  bear 

With  the  sword  of  the  Samurai. 
254 


The  Song  of  the  Samurai 

"Though  their  ranks,  like  the  ocean,  may  flood  the  plains, 

Like  breakers  may  beat  us  back; 
Here's  the  blade  that  shall  open  our  own  warm  veins 

Ere  we  faint  in  their  fierce  attack, 
Rather  the  boast  of  an  ancient  lord, 

By  our  own  fair  steel  to  die, 
Than  with  shame  of  defeat  to  pollute  the  sword  - 

The  sword  of  the  Samurai." 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Samurai 

In  the  army  of  new  Japan, 
Where  the  seeds  of  a  world-old  honor  lie 

In  the  soul  of  the  fighting  man. 
Pride  of  a  dauntless  nation  rings, 

Firm  is  his  battle  cry  — 
List  to  the  Nippon  host  that  sings 

The  song  of  the  Samurai. 


255 


AMONG  THE  DEAD  AT  LIAO  YANG 

HE  had  no  quarrel  with  any  man, 

He  knew  not  what  they  called  him  for; 
Yet,  roll  and  pack  upon  his  back, 

Ivan,  the  peasant,  went  to  war. 
"The  Little  Father  calls,"  he  said, 

And  followed,  followed  as  he  sang, 
Till  on  a  trampled  trench  he  lay 

Among  the  dead  at  Liao  Yang. 

Not  his  the  dream  of  land  and  power, 

The  greed  of  gain,  the  dread  of  loss; 
He  marched  with  orders  to  the  field 

To  bear  his  rifle  —  and  his  cross. 
God  had  ordained  it,  so  he  faced 

The  pelting  hail  that  snarled  and  sang, 
And  gave  his  patient  blood  away 

Among  the  dead  at  Liao  Yang. 

Among  the  glitter  of  his  court 

In  safety  sat  the  mystic  czar; 
Safe  sat  the  scheming  minister 

Who  cast  a  careless  die  for  war; 
They  could  not  hear  the  shattered  groan, 

The  horrid  chant  of  death  that  rang 
Where  unconsulted  thousands  lay, 

Among  the  dead  at  Liao  Yang. 
256 


Among  the  Dead  at  Liao  Yang 

He  had  no  quarrel  with  any  man, 

He  had  no  cause  to  battle  for; 
Yet,  roll  and  pack  upon  his  back, 

Ivan,  the  peasant,  went  to  war. 
A  minister  had  made  a  map 

From  which  a  deadly  army  sprang; 
So  Ivan  fell,  and  made  no  sign, 

Among  the  dead  at  Liao  Yang. 


257 


THE  DISCOVERERS 

THE  world  is  growing  small  and  the  seas  are  gathered  all 
Into  the  hands  0}  Commerce  and  the  fleets  that  span  the  deep, 

And  the  colonies  extend  to  Earth's  remotest  end, 

While  the  Seekers  who  discovered  them  —  and  i)  they  can 
—  may  sleep. 

At  midnight  when  the  merchant  ships  lie  anchored  in  the 
stream, 

When  city's  roofs  beneath  the  moon  all  pale  and  silver  gleam, 

When  at  the  wharves  the  liners  lie,  by  creaking  ropes  con- 
fined, 

A  strange  fleet  sails  into  the  bay  and  leaves  no  wake  behind. 

They  leave  no  wake  behind,  but  on  and  ever  on  they  go, 
And  at  their  high  and  antique  bows  no  signal  lanterns  glow ; 
But  in  the  look-outs  gray  and  dim  the  pale-faced  watchers 

stand, 
As,  pointing   to  the  sleeping  town,  they  cry,  "New  land! 

New  land!" 

"New  land !"   they  cry  as  the  fleet  shifts  by  the  quays  and 

slips  and  docks, 
The  steel-built  monsters  on  the  hills,  the  cluttered  towers 

and  clocks, 
These  sky-piled  heights  where  men  have  wrought  with  craft 

and  pain  and  gold 
Since  first  the  wave-tired  Seekers  hailed  the  virgin  lands  of 

old. 

258 


The  Discoverers 

One  looks  with  Hudson's  fiery  gaze  and  landward  stares 

abroad, 
And  one,  like  Serra  gowned  and  shorn,  upbears  the  cross  of 

God; 

Some  there  are  clad  in  goodly  garb  like  hero  men  of  Greece, 
Like  Jason  and  his  blood-pledged  crew  who  sought  the 

Golden  Fleece. 

And  some  bear  semblance  dark  and  high  in  glance  of  fierce 

disdain 
To  the  ocean-faring  cavaliers  who  leagued  the  world  for 

Spain ; 
And  some  are  bearded  men  and  fair  with  girded  sinews 

strong, 
Who  row  their  swan-beaked  boats  as  they  lift  their  harsh 

Jutlandic  song. 

And  their  eyes  outyearn  and  their  eyes  outburn  to  the  town 

on  the  moon-steeped  height, 
As  those  who  have  come  again  to  claim  the  dream  that  is 

theirs  by  right; 
But  on  each  brow  and  in  each  eye,  as  they  palely  scan  the 

shore, 
Is  the  look  that  man  shall  wear  but  once  and  man  can  wear  no 

more. 

"Our  bones,"  they  cry,  "have  crumbled  and  passed  in  many 

a  far  countree, 
And  some  are  dust  in  a  godly  grave,  and  some  in  the  floor  of 

the  sea; 
But  our  hearts  have  beat  to  the  Tune  of  the  Worlds  and 

flown  to  the  cry  of  the  West  — 
259 


The  Discoverers 

What  think  ye,  then,  that  our  souls  can  sleep,  that  our  wan- 
dering ships  can  rest? 

"For  we  have  traced  new  ocean  paths  where  none  have 

gone  before, 
And  we  have  borne  the  flags  of  kings  on  many  a  maiden 

shore ; 
Companions  of   the   sinking   sun,   hot  —  fevering   for   the 

quest  — 
What  think  ye,  then,  that  our  souls  can  sleep,  that  our 

wandering  ships  can  rest? 

"Year  unto  year  our  goblin  fleet  has  slipped  from  bay  to  bay, 
And  a  thousand  more,  and  a  thousand  more,  shall  we  sail 

till  the  Judgment  Day, 
And  your  cities  of  steel  shall  be  tumbled  down  and  the  new 

on  the  old  shall  stand, 
But  our  eyes  shall  strain  through  the  night  in  vain  for  the 

thing  that  is  not  —  New  Land." 

The  world  is  growing  small  and  the  seas  are  gathered  all 
Into  the  hands  0}  Commerce  and  the  fleets  that  span  the  deep, 

And  the  colonies  extend  to  Earth's  remotest  end, 

While  the  Seekers  who  discovered  them  —  and  if  they  can 
—  may  sleep. 


260 


HOME  BOUND 

(JOHN  PAUL  JONES) 

AROUND  the  straits  the  white  fleet  runs 

With  its  historic  mould ; 
The  salvo  of  saluting  guns 

Startles  the  ghosts  of  old. 
No  more  to  lie  with  stranger  graves 

Forgotten  and  alone, 
Again  he's  on  the  clean  blue  waves 

With  a  Squadron  of  his  own ! 

Earth-relic  of  a  gallant  heart, 

Dust  of  the  Privateers, 
How  could  it  lie  so  far  apart 

Through  all  these  stirring  years? 
Behold  these  steel-constructed  braves 

From  wooden  navies  grown.  — 
Again  he's  on  the  clean,  blue  waves 

With  a  Squadron  of  his  own ! 

See  you  upon  the  moonlit  tide 

Yon  phantom  vessel  sulk; 
Once  more  the  Serapis  doth  ride 

Upon  her  battered  hulk. 
Mark  ye,  good  foemen,  from  your  graves 

The  flag  for  battle  flown 
When  Jones  made  music  on  the  waves 

With  a  Squadron  of  his  own ! 
261 


Home  Bound 

Around  the  straits  the  white  fleet  slips 

And  bears  its  sacred  spoil 
To  lay  the  Father  of  our  Ships 

Within  his  native  soil; 
Free  is  the  dauntless  soul  who  craves 

The  Ocean's  blessed  boon, 
To  be  upon  the  clean  blue  waves 

With  a  Squadron  of  his  own ! 


262 


A   FATHER'S  WELCOME 

("The  Little  Father  will  hear  us,"  said  the  mob,  marching  to  the 
winter  palace.) 

NOT  one  among  the  peasant  horde 

That  trudged  along  with  patient  mind 
But  breathed  again  the  hopeful  word, 

"The  Little  Father,  he  is  kind." 
Not  one  among  the  tattered  throng, 

Pouring  from  market  place  and  square, 
But  murmured,  "Though  our  woes  be  long, 

The  Father  will  receive  our  prayer." 

Passing  by  Cossacks  and  dragoons 

They  saw  the  sabres  and  the  knouts; 
Above  the  line  of  drawn  platoons 

The  cannon  thrust  their  naked  snouts ; 
Fixed  bayonets,  in  place  to  kill, 

Caught  from  the  snows  the  winter  glare  — 
But  through  the  throng  the  whisper  still, 

"The  Father  will  receive  our  prayer." 

Now  it  is  over.     On  the  street 

The  undef ending  blood  is  shed. 
The  troops  move  by  with  cadenced  beat, 

The  tumbrils  bear  away  the  dead. 
Butchered  like  cattle  in  the  stall, 

Dying  the  death  of  slaves  who  dare 
Murmur  against  their  rightful  thrall  — 

Thus  has  the  Father  heard  their  prayer. 
263 


A  Father's  Welcome 

Leeches  of  Russia,  mark  your  fate, 

You  who  have  lived  by  blood  too  long  — 
A  Giant  hammers  at  your  gate 

To  right  a  dynasty  of  wrong. 
And  when  the  People,  fearless  grown, 

Swarm  through  the  royal  courts  and  tear 
The  rotten  timbers  from  the  throne  — 

THEN  will  the  Father  hear  their  prayer? 


264 


THREE  SONGS   OF   CHRISTMAS 


IN  CAMP 

CHRISTMAS  in  camp  —  the  icebound  river  winding 

Through  death- white  banks  among  the  sheeted  pines ; 
Drifts,  valleys  full,  in  stern  compulsion  binding 

The  workers  to  their  cabins  by  the  mines. 
Hard  hands,  but  tender  hearts  about  the  fire, 

Faces  deep  lined  by  elemental  strife, 
Eyes  quickened  by  the  wandering  desire 

That  calls  the  Seeker  from  his  bairns  and  wife. 
Letters  from  home,  and  many  a  homely  token 

To  dim  the  eyes  of  bronzed  and  bearded  men ; 
For  in  the  Spring  the  ties  of  kith  are  broken, 

But  Christmas  calls  the  Seeker  home  again. 

See,  in  the  East  the  Natal  Planet  glows 
Above  the  death's  head  of  Sierra's  snows. 

II 

AT  SEA 

CHRISTMAS  at  sea  —  and  still  the  ghost  fog  lingers. 

Far  off  Arenas  throws  her  beacon  light, 
Or  like  an  angel  lifts  a  glowing  finger 

To  warn  against  the  perils  of  the  night. 
265 


Three  Songs  of  Christmas 

The  mists  arise.     Old  Ocean  seems  to  listen 

To  catch  the  greeting  of  the  kindly  stars 
The  moon  pours  forth  her  scattered  beams  that  glisten 

Among  the  jewelled  frost-points  on  the  spars. 
O  wife  of  mine  in  that  far  harbor  waiting 

For  my  return  on  this  home-coming  day  — 
Why  should  the  Sailor  feel  the  Christmas  greeting 

With  Port  and  Love  such  bitter  leagues  away  ? 

Star  of  the  lonely  Mariner,  so  keep 

Love  in  the  world  and  Peace  upon  the  deep ! 

Ill 
IN  TOWN 

CHRISTMAS  in  town  —  a  carnival  of  giving, 

The  tingling,  jingling  pulses  of  the  time, 
The  feel  of  snow  on  furs,  the  joy  of  living, 

The  sound  of  sleigh-bells  bursting  into  chime. 
Through  yonder  pane  the  firelight  flickers  jolly 

From  happy  childish  face  to  tinselled  bough; 
Even  the  pauper  wears  his  sprig  of  holly  — 

Poor  he  indeed  who  has  not  fed  by  now ; 
Cold  he  indeed  who,  in  the  lust  for  treasure, 

Forgets  the  loving  kinship  of  the  race, 
Who  feels  no  cheer  in  all  the  Yuletide  pleasure 

That  Christ  the  Child  permitted  in  His  grace. 

Hear  you  the  children  laughing  through  the  gloam? 
The  Sailor  has  returned,  the  Seeker's  home. 


266 


THE  MONSTER 

A  MONSTER  woman  vile  of  face 
Hurried  into  the  market-place. 

Her  robes  were  yellow,  her  eyes  were  red, 
And  horror  flamed  in  the  words  she  said. 

And  the  smooth-clad  merchants,  as  she  drew  near, 
Shrieked  in  terror  and  hid  in  fear, 

As  she  soiled  their  streets  with  a  trail  of  slime, 
And  smeared  their  coats  with  her  soot  and  grime. 

And  a  fever  fumed  in  the  market-place 
At  the  sight  of  the  woman  vile  of  face. 

"A  curse,"  men  cried,  "on  the  vandal  foul, 
Hag  or  harpy  or  witch  or  ghoul. 

"Dripping  mud  on  our  spotless  guise, 
Showing  shame  to  our  shameless  eyes, 

"So  that  men,  with  deep  disgust, 
Turn  from  all  that  they  love  and  trust." 

"Curse  her  not,"  said  a  sayer  of  sooth, 
"Curse  her  not,  for  she  is  the  Truth." 


267 


CLASP  HANDS,  YE  NATIONS! 

(THE  PEACE  OF  PORTSMOUTH) 

CLASP  hands,  ye  Nations,  and  thank  God 

The  bitter  tragedy  is  done ! 
Corn  shall  be  planted  in  the  sod 

That  vengeance  long  has  trod  upon. 
Clasp  hands,  ye  Foes,  across  the  path 

By  life-blood  dampened  as  by  dew ; 
The  curtains  of  Almighty  wrath 

Roll  back  and  let  the  sunlight  through ! 

In  those  long  camps  where  armies  lie 

Between  the  battle  and  despair 
I  think  I  hear  a  mighty  sigh 

Rise  up  to  heaven  like  a  prayer: 
"Giver  of  Peace,  our  lives  are  dear 

And  we  have  felt  the  pains  of  men; 
Thank  God  the  blessed  end  is  here 

And  we  may  see  our  homes  again!" 

Peace !   and  the  grass  may  grow  once  more 
Among  the  gullies  and  the  stones 

Where  War  might  still  have  festered  o'er 
A  continent  of  skulls  and  bones. 

Peace !   and  the  fleets  of  commerce  choose 
Safe  paths  on  the  untroubled  deep 

Where,  buried  in  the  crawling  ooze, 

The  Navies  of  Misfortune  sleep. 
268 


Clasp  Hands,  Ye  Nations 

Clasp  hands,  ye  Nations,  in  the  prayer 

That  hell's  fierce  work  for  good  be  done; 
That  such  a  trial  by  fire  may  bear 

New  splendor  to  the  Rising  Sun ; 
And  that  the  Peasants  of  the  North 

Through  suffering  have  found  a  way 
To  summon  Light  and  Freedom  forth 

To  strike  the  prison-chains  away ! 


269 


THE  TOY  SELLER 

WE  human  folk  are  toys  of  Fate, 

Such  perishable,  gay  things; 
We  take  our  places,  small  and  great, 

Like  little  wooden  playthings; 
Some  pretty  polls  or  dainty  dolls 

Get  naught  but  admiration, 
While  some,  like  ugly  jumping-jacks, 

Are  foolish  by  vocation. 
We  cut  our  antics  for  a  while 

To  give  the  world  amusement, 
We  walk  and  talk  and  bow  and  smile 

With  make-believe  enthusement; 
The  pretty  toys,  the  ugly  toys, 

Move  on  by  Fate's  grim  token 
Until  the  day  they're  cast  away  — 

Poor  worn-out  toys  and  broken ! 

Toys,  toys,  toys ! 

Who'll  buy  my  playthings  frail?  — 
Like  human  folks  they  all  are  jokes, 

And  all  of  them  for  sale,  • 
Fate  pulls  the  string,  they  move  and  sing 

To  show  their  woes  and  joys. 
They  act  their  parts  with  wooden  hearts, 

My  toys,  toys,  toys  1 
270 


The  Toy  Seller 

We  human  folk  are  toys  of  chance, 

Left  often  where  we  tumble. 
Some  in  the  robes  of  princes  dance, 

Some  walk  in  garments  humble. 
Some  toys,  caressed  and  fondly  pressed, 

Know  sweet  affection  only; 
Some  toys  are  left  in  careless  hands, 

Neglected  things  and  lonely. 
We  grin  and  ape,  we  bow  and  scrape, 

With  gestures  wildly  frantic, 
Until  at  last,  our  works  run  down, 

We  can  no  longer  antic; 
Puppets  are  we  —  Fate  holds  the  key  — 

Our  parts  by  others  spoken 
Until  the  day  we're  cast  away  — 

Poor  worn-out  toys  and  broken 

Toys,  toys,  toys! 

Who'll  buy  my  playthings  frail  ?  — 
Like  human  folks  they  all  are  jokes, 

And  all  of  them  for  sale. 
Fate  pulls  the  string,  they  move  and  sing 

To  show  their  woes  and  joys. 
They  act  their  parts  with  wooden  hearts, 

My  toys,  toys,  toys ! 


271 


WHAT  FOOLS   THESE  IMMORTALS  BE! 


CHILD    LABOR    IN    LITERARY  SWEATSHOPS 


AMONG  the  literary  mills 

Where  story-books  are  made, 
I  saw  a  sad,  anaemic  lad 

A-plying  of  his  trade. 
The  novel  he  was  working  on 

Had  such  a  heavy  plot 
If  it  had  spilled,  it  might  have  killed 

That  willing  little  tot. 

II 

"O  child!"   I  cried,  "this  is  no  place 

For  one  so  very  young  — 
Take  care,  beware !   this  close,  stale  air 

May  hurt  each  little  lung. 
O  lay  aside  your  pen  and  ink"  — 

The  Infant  shook  his  head ; 
"Ah,  would  I  might  —  but  I  must  write 

To  earn  our  daily  bread. 

Ill 

"My  father,  ere  he  took  to  drink, 

Had  literary  skill, 
But  since  his  fall  we  children  all 

Were  prenticed  to  the  mill. 
275 


Child  Labor  in   Literary  Sweatshops 

My  brother  Ben  (he's  almost  ten) 

Turns  out  the  novelettes 
And  sister  Kate  (she's  only  eight) 

Works  over  storiettes. 


IV 

•    ;S, 

"But,  being  younger  than  the  rest, 

They  work  me  like  a  dog 
A-tying  knots  in  half-baked  plots 

And  building  dialogue. 
And  sometimes  when  the  trade  is  rushed 

I  labor  overtime 
At  outdoor  scenes  for  magazines 

And  seasonable  rhyme. 


"O,  sir,  to  cavil  or  complain 

We're  really  very  loath ; 
Although  this  here  dense  atmosphere 

Must  surely  stunt  our  growth  — 
Perhaps  them  folks  what  read  our  books 

Can  guess  our  fate  so  crool; 
We  want  to  be  like  others,  free. 

We  want  to  go  to  school ! " 

VI 

I  left  the  literary  mill 

In  gloomy  mood  indeed  — 
276 


Child   Labor  in   Literary  Sweatshops 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  some  child 

Has  written  what  I  read. 
Child-labor  must  be  crushed  !   Reform 

Must  trace  the  matter  home ! 
(I'll  send  these  views  to  Mr.  Hughes 

And  William  T.  Jerome.) 


277 


IN  OUR  CURRICULUM 

("Why    should    not    Latin    and  Greek  be    discontinued    in   the 
universities  ?"  some  advanced  scientists  are  inquiring.) 

HEAR  the  New  Professor  speak, 
"No  more  Latin,  no  more  Greek. 

"Homer's  merely  meant  to  play  with  — 
Classics  must  be  done  away  with. 

"No  more  foolish  lectures  on 
Socrates  and  Xenophon. 

"We  can  easily  forego 
'Arma  virumque  cano.' 

"Students  have  no  time  to  lose  — 
Teach  'em  something  they  can  Use. 

"Books  like  these  before  'em  thrust: 
'How  to  Build  and  Run  a  Trust.' 

"'How  a  Senate  May  be  Bought,' 
'How  to  Steal  and  Not  be  Caught.' 

'"Easy  Steps  to  Shearing  Flocks/ 
'Irrigating  Common  Stocks.' 

"Teach  the  thoughtful  theolog 
'Memoirs  of  a  Pious  Hog.' 

"Have  a  sociologic  course 

Called  'Respectable  Divorce.' 
278 


In  Our  Curriculum 

"Life  is  short  and  time  is  fast  — 
Wherefore  monkey  with  the  Past? 

"Make  the  student  fit,  I  say, 
For  this  grander,  larger  day. 

"Mould  and  train  him  so  he  can 
Learn  to  skin  the  Other  Man. 

"Thus  he'll  be  a  power  with  men 
And  a  model  citizen. 

"And  some  day  when  he  is  greater, 
He'll  enrich  his  Alma  Mater." 


279 


THE  LITERARY  LADY 

THE  Literary  Lady,  though  she's  clever,  none  can  doubt  it, 
Too  often  makes  us  wonder  why  she  worries  so  about  it, 
And  why,  when  one  picks  up  her  book  and  meekly  looks 

upon  it, 
Her  attitude  distinctly  says,  "Please  look  aime  —  I  done  it ! " 

The  Literary  Lady,  if  her  novel's  a  success, 
Occasionally  shows  it  in  the  manner  of  her  dress, 
As  if  to  ask,  "How  is  it  the  Immortals  do  their  hair? 
And  when  I  reach  the  Hall  of  Fame,  pray  what  am  I  to 
wear?" 

The  Literary  Gentleman  is  otherwise,  for  he 
Is  shrinking,  shy,  and  blushing  to  a  marvellous  degree. 
He  never  talks  about  himself  or  writes  the  kind  of  stuff 
That  gets  into  the  papers  for  a  literary  puff. 

And  when  a  sordid  Publisher  would  advertise  his  book, 
He  shrinks  from  such  publicity  with  dumb,  appealing  look ; 
And  every  time  a  compliment  comes  smilingly  his  way 
He  shrieks,  "Oh,  please  don't  mention  it!"    and  sighs  and 
faints  away. 

But  the  Literary  Lady  is  alert,  for  well  she  knows 

How  one  mistake  of  hers  might  wreck  contemporary  prose, 

And  as  the  laurel  crown  above  her  shell-like  ear  she  sticks 

She  wears  her  honors  lightly  as  a  wagon-load  of  bricks. 

280 


The   Literary   Lady 

There  is  some  strange  divinity  that  shapes  her  rides  and 

walks, 

As  now  she  sits  for  photographs  and  interviews  and  talks, 
And  in  her  friendly  sallies  with  the  lawyers  and  the  parson 
She  swings  the  torch  of  knowledge  in  a  way  suggesting  arson. 

The  Literary  Lady  racks  her  fascinating  head 
To  write  her  own  biography  before  she's  really  dead, 
To  tell  about  her  Editors,  her  Letters,  and  her  Cats, 
Her  spring  and  summer  Poetry,  her  fall  and  winter  Hats. 

For  proudly  she  explains  to  us,  as  proud  her  lip  is  curled, 
"The  hand  that  rocks  the  cradle  rules  the  (literary)  world; 
Therefore  I  firmly  tread — though  with  the  kindliest  intent — 
Upon  that  drooping  violet,  the  Literary  Gent." 


281 


ODES  FROM  THE  COSEY  CORNER  OF  HAFIZ 

(TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  ORIGINAL  PERSIAN  RUG) 

ALLAH  knows  when  I  was  younger,  by  the  spell  of  Beauty 

smit, 

If  my  Best  Beloved  scorned  me,  I  was  wont  to  throw  a  fit  — 
Kismet !  now  that  I  am  older  I  am  getting  used  to  it ! 

And  at  nightfall  when  the  bulbul  uttered  passion  through 

the  wood 

Till  the  Pleiads  swooned  to  morning  at  Her  jalosies  I  stood  — 
(And  if  I  remember  rightly,  my  digestion  wasn't  good). 

Though  a  callow  Priest  of  Passion,  from  the  altar  I  refrained, 
So  a  Gentlemanly  Spinster  I  have  ardently  remained, 
Losing  hair  in  just  proportion  to  the  flesh  that  I  have  gained. 

Ladies,  count  me  not  indifferent  to  all  your  graces,  pray  — 
Why,  should  chivalry  require  it,  I  would  die  for  you,  I  say, 
If  (of  course)  you  let  me  do  it  in  a  comfortable  way. 

Why  should  you  admire  a  Lover  who  lies  dying  on  the  grass, 
Stricken  by  the  sword  of  combat  to  a  rather  shapeless  mass  ? 
Why  not  ether  or  (still  cheaper)  plain  illuminating  gas  ? 

Who  most  feel  the  most  must  suffer,  and  I'm  sensitive  no 

doubt 

That  the  thorns  are  in  the  hedges  and  the  roses  dying  out. 

282 


Odes  from  the  Cosey  Corner  of  Hafiz 

I  alone  know  how  I  suffer.     From  the  Heart?    No,  from 
the  Gout ! 

Wine  of  Youth  and  fruits  of  Eden  dropping  timely  from  the 

Tree 

Have  a  reckless  pagan  flavor  which  no  longer  rouses  me 
As  I  take  my  Barrie  novels  with  my  macaroons  and  tea. 

So  you  call  yourself  "  Zuleikha  ! "  Gad,  the  name  is  oriental ! 
Is  it  purposely  erotic  or,  by  purpose,  accidental? 
(Do  not  lean  upon  that  shoulder!     It's  rheumatic,  so  be 
gentle !) 

Yes,  I've  told  my  beads  to  Venus  and  I  know  my  Kisses 

well; 

So  a  word  to  younger  poets  who  have  pretty  Odes  to  sell  — 
In  erotic  verse  the  secret  of  the  thing  is  "Kiss  and  Tell." 

Take  my  photograph  and  welcome,  but  don't  ask  a  lock  of 

hair, 

For  you'll  see,  on  observation,  I  have  only  one  to  spare 
(Like  my  teeth,  this  small  collection  has  been  labelled  "Very 

rare"). 

As  you  con  my  lyric  combats  where  the  tender  passions  duel, 
Think  of  me  who  rhymed  their  romance,  made  them  lan- 
guorous or  cruel  — 

Think  of  me  in  carpet  slippers,  nibbling  toast  and  sipping 
gruel ! 

And  if  sighs  of  disillusion,  sweet  Zuleikha,  come  to  you, 
What,  by  all  that's  sentimental,  can  an  elder  poet  do? 
It  is  hard  to  look  like  Shelley  when  one's  waistcoat's  fifty- 
two! 

283 


Odes  from  the  Cosy  Corner  of  Hafiz 

Yes,  my  dear,  you're  glad  you've  met  me,  and  to-night  when 

you  retire 
Waste  a  thought  upon   the  Poet  whose  young  verses  you 

admire, 
And  forget  that  he  is  old  enough  to  be  your  father's  sire. 


284 


THE  LITERARY  HORRORS   CLUB 

I  HAVE  no  literary  style, 

I  am  no  diplomat : 
But  those  who  read  "The  Clansman"  know 

I'm  not  alone  in  that, 
And  those  who  read  "The  Jungle"  know 

How  one  may  feed  the  rooks 
With  litter  from  the  slaughter-house 

And  turn  it  into  books. 

'Twas  in  a  literary  fog 

Beside  an  inky  wave; 
Some  rather  handsome  skeletons 

Were  dancing  on  a  grave; 
A  somewhat  pleasant  lynching,  too, 

Gave  zest  to  the  affair 
When  Jack  o'  London,  stalking  in, 

Cried  thrice,  "Ahoy,  Sinclair!" 

Then  Upton  came  from  Packingtown 

As  gay  as  one  can  be 
Whose  progress  is  accompanied 

By  Reverend  Thomas  D., 
The  latter  striking  attitudes 

And  braying  at  the  moon 
While  flourishing  a  manuscript 

Entitled,  "Coon,  Coon,  Coon!" 
285 


The  Literary   Horrors  Club 

"This  is  me  weekly  masterpiece," 

The  Reverend  Thomas  yelled, 
"  Though  most  of  it  is  short  on  facts 

And  some  of  it's  misspelled  — 
Yet  who'll  resist  me  portraiture 

Of  Dixie's  golden  age 
With  forty  horrors  to  the  word, 

Three  murders  to  the  page?" 

"Enough,  enough!   read  not  such  stuff!" 

Quoth  Upton  of  Sinclair, 
"I  would  a  bitter  tale  unfold 

Of  Sausage  and  Despair. 
My  hero  is  a  foreigner, 

A  stranger  yet  to  soap, 
His  name  Bzzzzzisqtyozxtistnob 

(Pronounced  Bzzuzzixzstnope). 

"The  pigs  were  squealing  lustily 

As  knives  thrust  home  to  kill. 
Our  hero  stood  knee  deep  in  blood 

And  ran  a  sausage-mill, 
When  suddenly  his  foot  it  slipped, 

And  on  the  knives  he  fell, 
The  sausage-grinder  gave  a  twist, 

And  with  a  horrid  yell  — " 

There  came  a  stranger  weird  and  wan 

Whose  chin  required  a  shave. 
He  pulled  his  slender  prophet's  beard 

And  writhed  upon  a  grave. 
286 


The  Literary   Horrors  Club 

"Alas!   she  was  a  cannibal !" 
He  moaned,  as  if  in  pain. 

Then  all  the  club  arose  and  cried, 
"Good  evening,  Mr.  Caine!" 

"Her  Pa  committed  suicide 

By  biting  off  his  head. 
Her  mother  saw  her  uncle's  ghost 

And  died  of  fright,"  he  said. 
"So  her  unpleasant  habits  seem 

Quite  curious  to  me 
Considering  she  comes  from  such 

A  pleasant  familee." 

There  came  a  Russian  accent  next 

Belike  a  popping  cork. 
I  think  'twas  Maxim  Gorky  who 

Was  showing  How  to  Gork; 
But  tired  of  madhouse  fantasies 

Right  quickly  home  I  gat : 
I  have  no  literary  style  — 

And  thank  the  Lord  for  that ! 


287 


BALLADE  OF  SOUR   GRAPES 

OFT  do  I  strive  with  god-like  toil 

On  clear  Parnassian  heights  to  dwell, 
While  Smith,  the  Author,  keen  for  spoil, 

Carpenters  novels  just  to  sell. 

His  work  is  drivel,  wot  I  well, 
But  still  his  mill  grinds  golden  grist 

The  while  his  sales  to  millions  swell  — 
The  poor,  Successful  Novelist ! 

With  fiendish  cunning,  smooth  as  oil, 

He's  robbed  the  master  minds  pell  mell  - 
Excerpts  from  Hardy,  Howells,  and  Doyle 

Are  peculated  by  the  ell. 

His  heroine's  a  damosel 
Just  like  a  thousand  more  I  wist  — 

How  you  succeed  I  cannot  tell 
O  poor,  Successful  Novelist ! 

It  fills  my  breast  with  wild  turmoil 

That  such  fat  wit  success  should  spell 
While  at  Fame's  doorstep  I  must  broil 

With  no  one  there  to  mind  the  bell. 

In  vain  my  classic  goods  I  yell; 
For  when  I  stop  I'm  never  missed, 

Though  friends  acknowledge  I  excel 
The  poor,  Successful  Novelist ! 
288 


Ballade  of  Sour  Grapes 

Envoy 

Public,  I  would  such  luck  befell 
That  my  fair  genius  I  might  twist 

Like  him  who  claims  your  I  X  L, 
The  poor,  Successful  Novelist ! 


289 


A  LATER  ADVENTURE  OF  PEGASUS 

WHEN  Pegasus'  decline  began, 

His  pinions  scarcely  fit  to  drag  on, 
The  Poet  sold  him  to  a  man 

Who  ran  a  vegetable  wagon. 
This  Huckster,  little  versed  in  Keats 

And  knowing  Horace  very  sparsely, 
Cared  less  for  Byron  than  for  beets 

And  less  for  Pindar  than  for  parsley. 

His  wit  was  slow, 

His  brow  was  low, 
His  voice  knew  not  Apollo's  uses 

(In  selling  leeks 

One  seldom  speaks 
The  favored  measure  of  the  Muses). 

And  so  the  Huckster  hitched  the  Steed 
Unto  his  cart  and  started  yelling 

His  stock  in  trade,  to  meet  the  need 
Of  every  cook  in  every  dwelling; 

But  lo !   each  word  he  tried  to  bawl 
Fell  into  rhymed  extravaganzas 

Until  at  last  his  huckster's  call 

Became  complete  poetic  stanzas: 
290 


A  Later  Adventure  of  Pegasus 

"Who'll  buy  my  corn 

This  jocund  morn  ? 
My  lettuce  green  as  tropic  parrots  ? 

My  marvellous 

Asparagus, 
My  radishes,  my  beans  and  carrots?" 

So  Pegasus  with  dusty  coat 

Tugged  till  the  sweat  ran  down  his  dapples, 
And  now  and  then  the  Huckster  wrote 

A  sonnet  on  a  peck  of  apples, 
And  now  and  then  he  raised  a  cry 

So  rhythmically  sublimated 
That  folks  remarked,  in  passing  by, 

"He's  daft  or  else  intoxicated!" 

"Crisp  cauliflower! 

Fresh  lemons  sour ! 
Cantaloupe,  spinach,  new  po-ta-toes ! 

Fresh  pease,  fresh  greens, 

Fresh  lima  beans, 
And  blood-red,  sun-kissed  ripe  to-may-toes ! " 

As  night  drew  on  the  Horse  divine 

Grew  most  extremely  irrit-able 
And  inwardly  began  to  pine 

For  oats  in  his  Parnassian  stable. 
He  kicked  his  master  off  the  dray, 

And  snorting  like  a  fiery  dragon, 
Spread  out  his  wings  and  flew  away, 

Still  harnessed  to  the  Huckster's  wagon. 
291 


A  Later  Adventure  of  Pegasus 

MORAI. 

Though  change  of  heart 

And  love  of  Art 
May  make  a  Poet  of  a  Carter, 

The  Muses'  colt 

Is  apt  to  bolt 
When  harnessed  down  to  trade  and  barter. 


292 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  A  GENIUS 


EARLY  SIGNS   OF   GREATNESS 

IN  a  cottage  neat  but  small, 

On  a  pleasant  April  mornin' 
I  was  born.     (Correct  locale 

For  a  genius  to  be  born  in.) 

When  my  parents  (they  were  poor) 
Heard  me  murmur  in  my  slumbers, 

" Surely  two  times  two  are  four." 

"Hark!"   they  cried,  "he  lisps  in  numbers !" 

II 

I  AWE  THE   WORLD 

I  WAS  first  inspired  to  write 

By  a  vision,  and  I  saw  it 
Point  to  means  whereby  I  might 

Burst  upon  the  world  and  awe  it. 

Did  I  awe  it  ?    That  did  I, 

Just  as  much  as  might  be  lawful; 
For  I  heard  the  public  cry, 

"Goodness  !   aren't  his  verses  awful!  " 
293 


The  Confessions  of  a  Genius 
III 

MY  WORK  MEETS   WITH   PRAISE 

NEXT  a  novel  to  compose 

I  employed  my  fairest  diction, 

Saying  to  myself,  "Here  goes  — 
For  there's  merit  in  my  fiction." 

Soon  that  merit  met  with  praise 
When  a  publisher  wrote,  "Sir,  it 

Does  not  suit  in  many  ways  — 
This  implies  no  lack  of  merit." 

IV 

HEARTY  RESPONSE  TO  MY  CONTRIBUTIONS 

QUICK  success  thus  made  secure, 
My  ambitions  grew  exciting. 

"There  are  large  returns,  I'm  sure, 
Latent  in  short-story  writing." 

I  was  right.     To  book  concerns 
Daily  stories  were  epistled  — 

And  I  got  my  "large  returns" 
Every  time  the  postman  whistled. 

V 

I  AM   LIONIZED 

FLUSHED  by  triumphs  such  as  these, 

Honor-garlanded  like  Dion, 
I  was  often  bid  to  teas, 

There  to  be  a  social  lion. 
294 


The  Confessions  of  a  Genius 

Here,  made  prudent  by  the  qualms 
Of  a  clumsy  social  bungle, 

I  retired  among  the  palms  — 
Still  the  Monarch  of  the  Jungle ! 

VI 

A   WORD   IN   CLOSING 

THUS  unburdening  my  heart 
I  have  made  a  public  clearance, 

Showing  what  is  gained  in  Art  — 
As  in  Life  —  through  perseverance. 

If  you're  really  inspired, 

Genius'  flower  cannot  be  frosted 
Till  the  editors  are  tired  — 

And  the  market  is  exhausted. 


295 


THE  STRIKE  IN  BOOKLAND 

IN  fairy  Bookland's  further  mere 

Where  future  thoughts  are  congregated, 
The  unborn  Novels  of  the  Year 

Met  and  their  ultimatum  stated. 
"Ere  from  the  Author's  teeming  brain 

We  spring,"  they  said,  "full-armed,  full- sized, 
We  swear  by  many  an  inky  stain 

We  won't,  we  won't  be  dramatized." 

A  bold  Historical  Romance 

(Of  future  date)  he  smote  his  thigh : 
"Gadzooks,  it  were  a  sore  mischance, — 

My  cartel,  an  ye  say  I  lie !  — 
That  some  betinselled  player  rogue 

Should  drag  fair  knight  to  state  despised  — 
I,  good  Sir  Guy,  to  be  their  vogue ! 

Mark  me  —  I  won't  be  dramatized." 

A  Tale  of  Manners  (still  unwrote) 

Frowned  slightly  through  her  gentle  poise: 

"Were  such  a  question  put  to  vote, 
One  certainly  should  have  one's  choice. 

A  lady  from  the  printed  page, 
However  thoroughly  revised, 

Is  not  at  home  upon  the  stage  — 

I  really  can't  be  dramatized." 
296 


The  Strike  in   Bookland 

A  future  Local  Color  Book 

Drawled  rakishly:    "That's  straight,  my  friend. 
There  ain't  no  manager  can  hook 

This  baby  out  of  Gila  Bend. 
I  guess  a  Novel  ain't  a  Play 

No  more'n  a  Cow's  a  Horse.     I've  sized 
The  sitooashun  that-a-way. 

You  bet  7  won't  be  dramatized." 

The  Coming  Novels  took  the  oath 

And  flew  into  their  Authors'  brains  — 
Will  they  be  false  or  true,  or  both? 

Unguessed  the  question  still  remains. 
Perhaps  some  future  Scribe  will  say: 

"The  novel  I  have  just  devised 
Is  not  essentially  a  Play  — 

It  can't,  it  won't  be  dramatized." 


297 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  LOCAL  COLOR 

0  BEAR  me  away  on  the  wings  of  the  night 
And  put  me  in  touch  with  the  stars; 

For  it's  new  local  color  of  which  I  would  write 
And  I  think  that  I'll  seek  it  in  Mars. 

I've  scoured  all  the  earth  to  its  farthest  demesne 

For  some  as-yet-undescribed  spot, 
And  long  have  I  fared,  but  yet  none  have  I  seen 

Not  used  long  ago  in  a  plot. 

Did  I  try  South  America?     Davis  has  that. 

The  Isthmus?     O.  Henry's  been  there. 
The  Klondyke?     Jack  London,  a  fierce  autocrat, 

Has  gobbled  the  North  as  his  share. 

Kentucky  belongs  to  the  mountaineer,  Fox, 

Wyoming  was  Wister's  on  sight, 
And  Parker  has  Canada's  rivers  and  rocks 

Fenced  in  by  his  own  copyright. 

1  ride  through  the  mesas  and  ranges  in  vain 
In  search  of  some  spot  in  the  West 

Which  might  have  escaped  "The  Virginian's  "  train 
"Red  Saunders"  has  gobbled  the  rest. 

Lo,  Duncan  has  left  not  a  comma  to  write 

On  the  sad  little  Newfoundland  isle 
298 


The  Quest  of  the   Local  Color 

And  how  can  I  dream  of  New  England  in  sight 
Of  Mary  E.  Wilkins's  style  ? 

I  fly  to  the  East,  and  'midst  races  of  men, 
With  names  unpronounceable  probe 

Till  bang  against  Kipling  I  come  with  my  pen; 
For  he  claims  the  rest  of  the  globe. 

Then  bear  me  away  on  ethereal  swells 
And  put  me  in  touch  with  the  stars  — 

But  hold  up  a  minute !    There's  Herbert  G.  Wells 
Already  located  in  Mars. 


299 


THE  BOOKWORM  TURNS 

UPON  my  bookshelf's  dusty  edge, 
His  tiny  suit-case  bearing, 

A  Bookworm  walked  across  the  ledge 
Toward  unknown  regions  faring. 

He  turned  and  faced  me  with  a  leer 

Entirely  disapproving. 
"I'm  getting  tired  of  boarding  here, 

And  so,  you  see,  I'm  moving. 

"I'm  easy  tempered,  heaven  knows! 

I  like  both  Swift  and  Bunyan, 
I'm  fond  of  Omar's  poisoned  rose 

And  Verlaine's  poisoned  onion. 

"I  even  manage  still  to  smile 
Upon  my  fellow-creatures, 

Though  bitter  mouthfuls  of  Carlyle 
Distort  my  placid  features. 

"And  I  conceal  my  tiny  pain, 

(Though  feeling  rather  rummy), 

When  Bulwer-Lytton  and  Mark  Twain 
Are  warring  in  my  tummy. 

"But  here  I  have  undone  myself  — 

Excuse  these  wormful  grovels  — 
300 


The   Bookworm   Turns 

For  I  have  dined  upon  a  shelf 
Of  pessimistic  novels. 

"Along  a  powerful  Tolstoi  row 

My  appetite  I  whetted, 
Then  lingered  with  d'  Annunzio 

And  ate  —  and  then  regretted. 

"I  tried  a  Hardy  sandwich  next, — 
My  greed  I  could  not  bridle,  — 

Then  nibbled  at  a  Gorky  text 
With  gusto  suicidal. 

"And  when  my  blood  was  thinned  away, 
My  soul  with  horror  tainted, 

I  bit  into  an  Ibsen  play, 

Gave  up  the  '  Ghost '  and  fainted. 

"Dyspepsia  breeds  the  misanthrope 
With  gloomy  thoughts  a-riot  — 

O  give  me  Doyle,  O  give  me  Hope, 
A  lighter,  simpler  diet!" 

And  so  I  saw  him  stride  away 

In  heavy  marching  order 
To  where  some  seaside  library 

Invites  the  summer  boarder. 


301 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A  PARODIST 

I  HAVE  vandalishly  parodied  "The  Raven," 

I  have  written  things  that  sounded  like  "The  Brook," 
Banal  gambols  I  have  made  with  "The  Injun  Serenade," 

And  I've  dandled  Kipling's  "Vampire"  on  my  hook; 
But  in  all  my  dark  career  of  evil-doing 

Certain  moments  of  discretion  I  have  shown, 
I  have  never  tackled  "Hiawatha's  Wooing"  — 

There  are  chestnuts  which  it's  best  to  leave  alone. 

"Mother  Goose's"  little  rhymes  I've  up-to-dated, 

I  have  parodied  the  feet  of  Bobbie  Burns ; 
Though  I've  never  fooled  with  Homer,  I  have  done  some 
stunts  with  Omar. 

And  I've  given  "Paul  Revere"  some  frightful  turns. 
I  have  served  "The  Ancient  Mariner"  warmed  over, 

Full  of  topical  allusions,- just  for  spice; 
But  I've  never  copy  made  of  the  mildewed  "Light  Brigade" 

There  are  classics  which  it's  best  to  leave  on  ice. 

Heaven  knows  it's  often  hard  to  get  possession 

Of  enough  Old  Favorites  to  go  around; 
In  despair  they  sometimes  find  us  writing  "Great  men  all 
remind  us," 

Though  that  verse  was  long  since  run  into  the  ground. 
Though  for  parodies  in  Paradise  I  plunder, 

Drag  the  "Blessed  Damosel"  from  airy  heaven, 
May  I  perish  where  I  fall  if  I  ever  have  the  gall 

To  afflict  the  world  again  with  "We  Are  Seven." 
302 


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